The Way We Fall
by unfortunatelyme
Summary: AU. My take on events during the four seasons and how they've shaped the characters (though timed toward the beginning of Season Four). Revolves around addiction, recovery, and those who help along the way. Paily all the way.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is predominantly AU, with hints of similar themes. Whether or not I can think of further ideas will affect the continuation of the project. The prelude is short, but should pick up in length as the chapters progress.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.**_

* * *

_"It's family services, Emily."_

The same line rings through my head each night, making all notions of sleep but a distant memory. A faded reminder of the past. How it has this funny way of following us around.

On nights like this, I typically call Paige and allow the gentle, constant hum of her voice to dissuade me from "the alternative", as they called it in Piney Woods. But after the evening's occurrences, I instead opt for three off-white tablets. Choking them down dry with the same ease as seven months ago. They say that old habits die hard. But what they forget to mention is how few alternatives exist. Especially when your safety net falls mute, ignoring your calls for help. And your guardians fall blind to your constant struggles. At this point, old habits _are _the alternative.

When morning comes, seven missed calls await my tending. Each reading the same caller identification: Paige. I don't ring back, for she will undoubtedly hunt me down at school. And with the argument that's bound to ensue, I decide to enjoy what few hours of solace remain.

* * *

A shrill bell rings, signaling both the end of fourth period and my peace. I wait at our usual table in the courtyard. One minute passes. Two. Then she rounds the corner. Long, brown hair in a ponytail. Books cradled to her chest. A scowl that doesn't cease when she slides in across from me.

"I called," Paige states. "Seven times, actually."

"I was asleep," I mutter.

Paige's frown heightens in intensity as she leans across the table. "Funny. Because last time I checked, you were pretty diligent in being an early riser." When I don't respond, she asks, "How many was it, Em?"

"Just one," I lie too quickly. And far too ashamed to admit my greater shortcoming.

"You remember," she pleads. "'Just one' leads to just one more. And before you know it, you're in over your head."

Of course I remember. It wasn't but a month ago that I was forced to sit through the same meetings as she. Forced to listen as various counselors droned on and on about the dangers of "just one more". The advice is as annoying now as it was then. So I protest, "I needed it. With the argument _you_ insisted on having with my parents."

"We were just talking," Paige dismisses.

I'm forced to stifle a laugh, knowing full and well that "just talking" doesn't reach the octaves that boomed throughout my house. Simple conversation doesn't give way to the accusations made from both parties. "You called them shit parents," I eventually say.

Only now do Paige's eyes cut toward me, away from the table. "No, I merely said that they were incompetent caregivers," she retorts. "And judging by your state this morning, I'd say I was spot on."

I should be offended by her pointed remark. Insinuating that I've fallen back into the black hole that once consumed me. Consumed both of us. But Paige was there throughout the entire treatment process. She understands the signs. The slightest change in one's mood. Altered patterns of speech. A dimmed glow in the eye. Each of them symptoms. Symptoms that Paige had no trouble spotting then, and apparently has no issue with now.

Shame is the only feeling I recognize anymore. Lying to the girl who single-handedly carried my weight in treatment. My best friend. My girlfriend. My confidante. Brutal honesty being our only savior in the half-year stint; and now it's the very thing pushing us apart. She needs to know. About everything going on in the Fields' home. "They're doing the best that they can," I admit. "With what's…" but I can't finish.

Paige must recognize my hesitance, for she takes hold of my right hand. Face fallen. Eyes softened. "With what, Emily? I need you to talk to me," she pleads, giving the hand a squeeze. "Allow me to help, or it'll be as if all of our progress was for nothing."

I choke back a cough. So badly do I want to tell her about Family Services. How they've been harassing my parents. Harassing me. How checkups were to be expected, but a lone anonymous caller has further sentenced our family to the hell that is social workers and the looming threat of foster care. A constant, resounding fear of what lies ahead. Uncertainty.

I often compare the situation to laps in the pool. When your goggles fog over the course of the exercise. You're so intent- so utterly focused- on moving ahead, that there is no time to clear the way. Gather your bearings. Even when you can't see so much as a foot in front, and the danger of ill-timed turns or hitting the wall are increasingly prevalent, going at anything but full speed means losing. And some of us just can't afford to lose.

That's how I feel now, with the future so plagued by ambiguity. So unbalanced. At this point, veering even the slightest from normalcy could prove disastrous. Make one wrong move, and I'm in a new home within the week.

So badly do I want to tell her. Open up to Paige like I did at Piney Woods Rehabilitation Facility. Affirm that all of her efforts weren't in vain. But much like at the program's start, cowardice wins out. Denial. And so I lessen her worries with a quick, "It won't happen again. I promise."

We both know that it's not enough. But Paige sighs, stands us up, wraps her arm around me, and places a firm kiss to my temple. Then we're off to class.

* * *

Paige's stern advice is at the forefront of my mind the next afternoon, as I venture toward Rosewood High School's Senior Skip Day field party. It's tucked away at the edge of the city, buried deep within the woods.

"Where's Paige?" Spencer asks. "Figured she might be here to keep an eye on you. Being the astounding babysitter that she is."

I huff in return. There's no denying my friends' distaste for Paige's protectiveness. They're constantly making snide remarks as to how she's at my house too frequently, or constantly giving me rides, or randomly calling to check up at odd hours. I can't defend Paige in the least. For defending her would mean discussing what went on in the rehabilitation center. Why I was there in the first place. And with the ever-present stresses, it's a topic and conversation I don't have the strength for.

So, as we near sporadic masses of people, I veer away from Spencer and seek out anything to drink. The destination is a long, white table, littered with bottles of all shapes and sizes. I mix up a concoction from the arrangement. It's harsh. Burning. Just what I need to dull the equally-taxing thoughts of Family Services.

Throughout the evening, and well into the early hours of morning, Paige doesn't text me once. Probably because she doesn't know that I decided to tag along with our classmates. Regardless, she usually checks in even if I'm only at the house.

The buzz sets in painfully quick. I've been doing so well at avoiding anything remotely intoxicating that after three cups of drink, keeping upright becomes a chore. I prop against a log nearest the bonfire. Blurred faces pass behind the flame. Not one glances my way.

That is, until my eyes are forced open by someone's shaking. A blonde keeps two hands on each of my shoulders, nudging forcefully. "Emily, wake up." I silently glare up at Hanna. She's kneeling in front, Spencer, with arms crossed, to her back. "Maybe it's time we get you home," she continues.

But I'm shaking my head, grabbing hold of Hanna and forcing myself up. "I'm fine," I assure. Granted, both of their narrowed pairs of eyes broadcast disappointment and worry. Emulating the very emotions that course through me. And so I retrieve a set of keys, nestling into the car's front seat. The girls decided to stick around at the party. I, on the other hand, want nothing more than a bed.

In no position to drive, I'm forced to choose between sleeping off the drink and making a painful phone call. One that will surely result in a solid thirty-minute scolding. The need for comfort takes precedent, however, so I dial the number I've committed to memory. Seconds later, Paige answers, saying, "I'm on my way."

* * *

"Still convinced that you're recovered?" Paige spits, ushering me from the driver's seat and around the vehicle. I don't respond, understanding that there is no appropriate response. And by "appropriate", I mean anything that will lessen the effects of my lapse in judgment.

Instead, I remain silent, allowing the smooth feel of tires against pavement lull me into a trance. A trance that is broken as a familiar tune plays on the radio. It's that Coldplay song. _No one said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard._ The lyrics send a pang of guilt through my chest. They, the counselors and doctors, often preached that rehabilitating was child's play in comparison to being discharged from the facility. That temptations are around every corner, and living sober is more than a one-time achievement. Rather it's something that requires constant attention and nurturing.

Though carnally handicapped, I run through the concept with a sober mind. Even as Paige drapes my arm over her shoulder and leads us through the front door, climbing the stairs at a painstakingly slow pace. She practically throws me onto the bed, withdrawing from all tenderness she usually exudes. When Paige reaches for the comforter, I put both hands up, thwarting the gesture. "I don't need a babysitter," I snap, mimicking Spencer's tone. Drunkenly avoiding that it was I who summoned her help in the first place.

Paige's face contorts. Mouth slightly open. Shifting her eyes to the ceiling before returning to me. "Could've fooled me," she mutters, tossing the blanket aside and shuffling to an unpacked suitcase nearest my dresser. Sitting atop is a plaque. "Valiant is each individual in their effort to rise," she reads aloud. "Soldiers from the dust. Unbound by chains of the past that hold firm, threatening the future. But more courageous are those willing to fall. Those who knowingly plummet into the depths of all that is unknown. For they, too, rise. Emerging triumphant and built anew. And so we call out: woe to the unfallen. Woe to the unfallen. Amen."

It's a parting gift that they give to everyone who completes the program. Motivation to remain sober after one has exited the comfort of Piney Groves. Paige mockingly laughs to herself, tossing the frame back onto my suitcase. She doesn't even look to me a final time before leaving.

* * *

Sleep doesn't come easily. In fact, it doesn't come at all. For I'm kept awake, listening to the muffled bickering between Paige and my parents. I don't bother eavesdropping. Not tonight. For the conversation is always the same. Their lacking as parents. How Paige won't always be around to help. That recovery extends far beyond reaching sobriety. A group effort sort of thing.

I lie in bed, the lyrics from earlier cycling in my head. _Oh, take me back to the start._ They really hit home this go around. What I would do to travel back in time and snatch the pain medication from my hand. To convince myself that there are other ways of handling the stress. The constant pressure. To let the sixteen year-old Emily Fields know just how much one Paige McCullers will mean to her, and just how little she will let Paige know. To warn the sixteen year-old Emily of what pain it will cause Paige, watching her crumble.

More importantly, to convince a very immature, selfish sixteen year-old me that even the kindest, most patient souls have breaking points. Moments when enough finally becomes enough. How she should avoid reaching that moment at all costs.

And so I keep awake throughout the night, wallowing in the heartache. Succumbing to the floods of guilt, shame, and despair that pound into my chest.

_Oh, take me back to the start._

* * *

School passes in a blur, on account of my nervousness for later. At three o'clock this morning, I decided let Paige know. To resort back to our days at Piney Groves, where open honesty reigned supreme. To promise that this time is the last. No more hurting each other. To let her know exactly what plagues my thoughts, and thank her for being patient, caring, and gentle. Especially when it's so clear that I haven't deserved a lick of any.

When night falls, I make the journey to the McCullers home. Paige and her father went on a college visit today, so I couldn't make the spiel at school. Which is probably best, for pure anxiousness fills the pit of my stomach.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _Moments pass, and there's no answer. _Knock. Knock. Knock. _Nothing.

I dare to open the front door and peek inside. The living room is dark, mind a single lamp that shines against the furniture. Faint scuffling sounds from upstairs, so I venture inside. Silently hoping that none of the McCullers clan takes me as a robber and does something rash.

A voice leads me to the upstairs hallway. It's muffled through a cracked door at the end. I creep along, propping against the outside wall. Only now does the voice become clear.

"Is this the Pennsylvania Department of Family Services?" it asks. They wait. "Yes. I'd like to make an anonymous reference." Another pause. "Fields. Wayne and Pam. Daughter is Emily." And then my address is given, along with a slew of other information that I tune out.

The realization forces me to the ground. Hysteria. Betrayal. Each fixates into my bones, forcing both hands to palm my face, choking back the cries that threaten to break free.

The voice belongs to Paige.


	2. Take Me Back To The Start

**PamyNovaes: WHAAAAAT? Here's more. Lol. (And I appreciate the sentiment.)**

**Guest: Thank you so very much. I certainly appreciate it.**

**Author's Note:**** I've got a vague idea of where this is headed. So, without further adieu...**

* * *

_Seven Months Earlier_

When you're little, the idea of grass being greener on someone else's side isn't necessarily something to dwell on. For each experience is entirely new. Each popsicle is the sweetest. Every day the sun shines brightest of all. And every jagged blade of grass is the greenest hue you've ever laid eyes on.

But as time progresses, new experiences fall few and far between. Days turn into routines; school becomes a chore. Things you once enjoyed gradually lose their appeal.

So, when you're sixteen years-old, digging through your parents' medical cabinet for the first time, an eerie sensation of being little once more sets in. Two muscle relaxants and twenty minutes later- you're floating higher than you ever have. As if you're eight again, swinging higher, higher, and higher. Only this time- when you jump free, prepared to free-fall toward the ground, a cloud catches you, and the rest is history.

Today, as I tear into my mother's various medications, that same painful history becomes clear with each passing second. I try recalling that childish feeling. Try to remember the sweet popsicles, bright days, and green grass. It doesn't return. For each pill bottle reads the same: _May cause drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery after taking._ There is no warning of the necessity that follows. The constant need for more. A nagging itch that insists you return to the cloud just one more time. There is no warning of the disappointment, bitterness, and self-loathing that trail slowly behind the cloud.

I couldn't tell you where this started, even if I tried. Maybe it was out of curiosity. A release from existential boredom. Maybe it was from the pressures of school and sports. Having the knowledge of college's unlikelihood without some sort of scholarship constantly in the forefront of my mind. Regardless of the "why", "how" begins to take precedent. How am I going to hide the stealing? And at the same time, how am I going to swipe another? How would I ever make it through a day if these things didn't exist? To ask why would leave you trapped in the past. Coming to grips with how keeps us ever present-minded, barreling recklessly toward the future.

A future with far more new experiences to be had. Like stumbling into your parents' conversation one evening after dinner. Eavesdropping as terms like "family services" and "treatment" are thrown around.

* * *

"Family Services has given us an ultimatum, Emily," my mother explains, tears welling in her eyes. "Either you enter treatment, or they'll place you in a more suitable home. Apparently your father and I are no longer properly equipped to raise you."

I'm trying to make sense of her words. Trying to pinpoint what might warrant their involvement. Why I've heard nothing of this before. I'm more concerned, however, with how reckless I was. Careless with this secret. "Somebody must have said something," I accuse, my mind reeling over potential suspects. Teachers. A classmate. Spencer, Aria, or Hanna. Someone from work. Hell, even swimmers from a rival school. I bet they'd love to see the competition taken down.

Only now does my father chime in. He takes hold on one of my arms, eyes narrowing in. "You're not listening, sweetheart," he says. "It doesn't matter who said what. The fact is that Family Services are involved and we've got to act." It's his typical, Army reaction to every situation. Always on the offensive. Action, action, action.

Too much action kills a buzz, unfortunately. Their worry knocks me clean from the cloud, forcing a rapid plummet to the ground. And since it took me longer to ascend with the last fix, fretting over the threats of people with clipboards and too much time on their hands is at the bottom of my agenda. Instead, irritation is the only emotion I can actively recognize. "And if I refuse both?" I eventually ask.

My mother steps forward, placing a gentle hand to my eyelid, forcing it open. "Are you on-" but I cut her off, yanking away. In one swift motion, I'm darting upstairs, two steps at a time. It takes all of six minutes to cram the necessities into a duffel bag. Toiletries. Clothes. A small baggie of capsules I bought off of some kid in Calculus. The basics.

Both are still waiting downstairs when I emerge. "I take it that neither of you think I'm innocent, huh? That people are talking purely because they _can?_"

"We're worried, Emily. About you," my father insists.

"If you want to send your only child to the junkie house, be my guest," I dismiss, hoping that the guilt card is more than an urban myth.

My mother pipes up. "Nobody wan-"

But I cut her off again. And in the steeliest tone that I can muster, I announce, "When do we leave?"

* * *

The car ride is nothing short of completely silent, mind the occasional choked sob from my mother. I don't bother with consoling. This is her doing. I might have loaded the gun, but she pulled the trigger. And I'm intent on making that known.

Within an hour, we near a large, light blue building. From the outside, it looks welcoming. Like a resort. As if I'll be going on an extended vacation. One that distant, towering guard posts will prevent me from leaving.

Heading alongside the sidewalk, we pass a sign that reads, in large block letters: **Piney Groves Rehabilitation Center.**

Where in the actual fuck do they come up with these names? I'm about to ask Dad when we come upon a circular desk, nestled in the room's center. A thin man sits behind, answering multiple phones. "Piney Groves Rehabilitation Center. Brett speaking," he mutters into the receiver, placing a finger up to my mother.

In the minute that follows, I'm afforded time to canvass the area. Groups of kids my age wander throughout the foyer, filing into long corridors underneath the grand staircase. Each looks cheerful enough. One might compare the scene to a high school setting. That is, if everyone in high school wears the same powder blue scrubs and flip flops.

My trance is broken when a lanky woman in a pants suit clicks up to our trio. She extends a hand before saying, "Dr. Evans. Welcome." And then her attention shifts to me. "Emily Fields?" When I can only muster an anxious nod, she smiles and continues with, "We've been expecting you. Follow me."

Dad shoos Mom and I away, tending to a stack of paperwork that Desk Clerk Brett places on the counter. We venture downstairs first, following the sounds of heels click-clack on tile. Dr. Evans slows to a halt, just outside a massive window. It overlooks rolling fields and a lake off in the distance. In the following minutes, we pass an empty cafeteria, a slew of tiny classrooms, and the random office. The downstairs tour ends in a large, tiled room. A swimming pool is inside, complete with lanes.

Mom nudges me excitedly. "See, Emily," she whispers. "You'll be able to swim. Just like old times."

Dr. Evans's face brightens at the remark. "Our swim program competes against local high schools," she explains, gesticulating wildly. "The board finds that swimming is a great way to channel aggression without physical contact. All while being far less strenuous than a chess club." She and my mother both laugh at the last bit.

Upstairs has the same vibe. Halls and halls with rooms to either side. The dormitories, as Dr. Evans explains. A quick peek inside the only open door shows two single-size beds, a nightstand to the side of each, and a single lamp. Though not the most spacious, at least it's carpeted. Quaint.

Toward what I take as the end of our tour, Dr. Evans halts at the staircase top, checking her wrist. "I'm afraid that I must bid you both adieu," she huffs. "The lunch rush is always most hectic. And Emily, I look forward to seeing you at orientation." She and Mom shake hands, and then the click-clacking slowly fades away.

"What do you think?" Dad asks as we return.

Truthfully, I didn't know what to expect. Security planted in every corner? People strapped to rolling chairs? Instead, there is nothing intimidating about this place. I've chalked it up to nothing more than a luxury day care for junkies. So I muster a confident, "It's different."

Both parents start gathering themselves, as if about to leave. "No need to fret, dear. January 28th will be here before you know it," he says, placing a light kiss to my cheek.

_Wait._ I do the math quickly. "_Six months?_" I blurt. From what they broadcast on television, people are in and out of these places in one, two months, tops. Senior year is less than a month away. How am I supposed to explain a six month absence? Claim some arbitrary sickness? Say that I was kidnapped over summer vacation? No. The team needs me. I'll miss the entire season. This can't be.

Mom must sense my uneasiness, for she draws me into a firm hug. "It's the minimum length for admittees," she explains.

"But-"

"Complete the program," my father chides. "Listen to the doctors. _Get better_. And come home to us." Then they're both turning toward the door. Nerves force me in pursuit. Desperation.

Choking on each word, I call out, "There's got to be another way. I screwed up. I get it. Let me come home, and I promise that it won't happen again." The rambling leaves me breathless, praying for a change of mind.

My mother hardens her expression, forcing away the mist that threatens to break free. In a callous tone, she says, "I'm afraid we're all of out of options." And then they're gone.

* * *

As if their exit opened the flood gates, a bell rings and swarms of teenagers file through the foyer. Desk Clerk Brett instructs me to sit as he makes a call. As a sea of powder blue flows past, eyes shift from me toward the ceiling. Only now do I notice the mural that hangs at the right wall's top. In italicized letters, it reads:

"_Valiant is each individual in their effort to rise. Soldiers from the dust. Unbound by chains of the past that hold firm, threatening the future. But more courageous are those willing to fall. Those who knowingly plummet into the depths of all that is unknown. For they, too, rise. Emerging triumphant and built anew. And so we call out: woe to the unfallen. Woe to the unfallen. Amen._"

The reverie is broken by DCB's voice. "Ms. Fields," he calls, snapping me to attention. And with the turn of his head, I'm directed to a tall brunette in plain clothes. Without a word, she collects my bags and tears off in the other direction.

I'm lead into the corridors, seedy looks from passersby raining down. We stop in a caged, dimly lit room. Locked cubbies hang all about. The brunette retrieves a container and unzips my luggage, rummaging through the pack. I begin to protest when she puts a hand up, silencing me. Seconds later, my wallet and cell phone are tossed into the plastic container. The small baggie doesn't resurface in my mind until she holds it out front, examining the contents.

"I can expl-" but she puts another dismissive hand up.

Grueling moments pass until she finally speaks. "Strip," she commands, placing a folded pile on the metal table. Feeling the sting of my previous error, I comply. When I'm down to nothing but my underwear, bra, and socks, she waves a hand. As if instructing me to continue. "You'll get everything back in two weeks, when we've decided that you aren't a flight risk."

"This isn't prison," I grumble, undressing further.

She huffs, eyes cutting into mine. "Have you ever seen an addict in detox?" she sneers, snatching my bra away. Long fingers dig into the lining, ripping the wiring free. "This isn't prison," she agrees, holding the piece of steel to my eye. "But prison isn't the only place where tensions run high. People lash out. They run away. Withdrawal's not a pretty sight."

A chill runs through my naked, semi-covered body. I'm soon allowed a sports bra, pair of loose-fitting scrubs, and sandals. Then we leave the cage, winding through twists and turns, up a back stairwell, and down yet another dimly lit hallway before screeching to a halt. The nameless tour guide whips out a pair of keys, swinging the door open.

It's nothing like the room I inspected earlier. Cold, white tile floors. Two mattresses supported by a steel frame. White sheets. White curtains. White everything. The only familiar thing is the voice that calls out, "Orientation's in five." before slamming the door shut.

* * *

Five minutes feels like it could be six months with how slowly the time passes. Soon enough, I poke my head outside. Lines of equally frightened faces flow through the narrow space. I follow suit, aimlessly strolling in tandem until we reach a large auditorium. Dr. Evans stands on stage, towering over the forty or so of us.

"Welcome to Piney Groves," she booms over the microphone. "Where we believe that new beginnings are right around the corner." The next forty-five seconds are devoted to reading the creed aloud. The same one that I spotted on the wall earlier. At its end, she extends both arms and asks, "Amen?" To which the crowd repeats.

I scan the crowd of solemn faces from afar. Two lines are formed on either side of the stage. Each person in civilian garb. Arms crossed behind their backs. Standing tall. Proud. They've undoubtedly been here for some time. As if tenure in a place like this is boast-worthy. I spot the brunette from earlier, ten people deep into the left side. She looks smug, much like our earlier encounter.

Dr. Evans runs over a set of rules. Basic stuff. Group therapy is every morning. Followed by prescription pick-up, lunch, and classes. Dinner at five. Lights out by ten. Anything done with the time between is of our choosing. "You're going to struggle," she continues. "It's to be expected. And you're going to be irritable. That's expected, too." Dr. Evans twirls the microphone cord around her finger.

"There will be times that the annoyance will become too much, and you'll feel as though you must endure this process alone. Feel as if we're holding your hands. Babying you," she says gently. "That is not the case. _We_," she signals to the lines below, "are here to help. This fine selection of patients are going to be your mentors for the next six months. Show you the ropes. Get you acclimated. Should you ever feel uncomfortable speaking with a counselor- they'll be here."

A collective sigh ripples through the auditorium. Restlessness from her constant droning. Dr. Evans must realize this, for she uprights and speaks a bit louder. "Speaking of holding hands… This brings me to my next point," Dr. Evans announces and pauses. "There will be no physical contact of any kind. Fighting will not be tolerated. And neither will bumping uglies behind the dumpster." The last snippet elicits a chuckle from the crowd.

She then explains how drugs, alcohol, missing curfew, and absence from mandatory sessions are prohibited. A headache settles in just below my left eye, reminding my internal clock of the time. Reminding my senses of the trouble I'm in. We're allowed to leave just as soon as Dr. Evans finishes with, "An infraction of any kind will result in the stern reevaluation of your time here. Take it from me- you don't want that. So take a deep breath, and we'll get through this together."

An orderly then ushers rows of us to a far wing. Mutters throughout the line suggest meeting with the resident physician. It's only after another thirty-minute wait do I learn that some rumors possess truth. In the office is another sea of white. Another metal table.

"Treatment is individualized. Medications and the like," a man named Dr. Andrews explains. "And I had your previous doctor send over the records from your last visit." He pauses, flipping through the sheets attached to a clipboard. After skimming through, he sighs, "How long have you been abusing prescription drugs, Emily?"

The question throws me off balance. No one's ever asked, let alone so blatantly. He takes my silence as answer, scribbling onto the clipboard. "Any aches or pains that I should know about?" Dr. Andrews asks.

"A headache," I admit.

"Your head has to get used to detox, just as the rest of your body," he says. "It'll go away in about a week."

The weight of my situation sets in. Trouble with adjusting to pain is what landed me here in the first place. Fear is next. Fear of aching bones that formed when I tried to quit a couple of months back. Fear of skin that will soon fit much like these scrubs. Fear of the migraines. Fear of losing the cloud. So I bring up the only injury I can recall and the only one likely to be hidden deep within his files. "My shoulder," I lie. "I hurt it a while back and the pain has yet to disappear."

Dr. Andrews' face lights up as he thumbs through the pages, jaw tensed. "Here it is," he says, placing a finger onto the sheet. "Cyclobenzaprine. Fifteen milligram dosage, three times daily. Not to be taken with antidepressants." The name sounds familiar, so I nod. It's confusing, though, his amusement by the ordeal. For the doctor chuckles, reaching into a desk drawer, and places three peppermints into my hand. He then mutters a sly, "Nice try, kid."

* * *

The rest of the day is a blur. And when the ten o'clock bell rings, my fourth hour in bed is signaled. Sleep has become a figment of the imagination. At home, this would be about the time I pop two tablets and call it a night. Since home is so very far away from this place- this room- I stare as my roommate wordlessly enters and falls into bed.

She's a bottle blonde type. Slumped, taut frame. Glasses. We didn't speak earlier, either. A sneaking suspicion says that we won't any time in the near future.

When a morning alarm goes off, the sun has yet to rise. I would know, for I've been staring out of the barred window all night, waiting. Per yesterday's onslaught of information, the early routine consists of showering then breakfast. So I zombie from bed, down the hallway, and to the right, where the second floor stalls lie. An orderly hands out towels, insisting that they be returned before leaving the bathroom. I pull the curtain to, hoping that warm water will reawaken my senses. It doesn't. I splash cool faucet water on my face, hoping for the same. It doesn't, either.

The food is shit. Reconstituted eggs, leathery bacon, and room temperature orange juice. I eat alone and in silence, working feverishly to block out the surrounding noises. A sleepless night and twenty-hour withdrawal make hangovers seem like child's play.

Every other face that enters the cramped room used for group sessions emulates my feeling. Eight folding chairs, neatly arranged in a circle, await bodies. I'm the second to appear, falling behind a lanky fellow. He's slouched over in the chair, scowling at the ground. Minutes pass as the others enter one by one. The last to appear is an older woman who dances sprightly into the room.

"My name is Angie, and I'll be your team leader for the time being," she sing-songs, taking a seat across from me. "Why don't we start with some basic introductions? Names, ages, and the battles we plan on fighting over the next six months." All of these fucking military references. No wonder Dad didn't put up much of a fight against sending me away.

We begin with the lanky guy from earlier. An eighteen year-old named Ross who got busted for selling drugs on an elementary school playground. Next to him is Sarah, who's fifteen and starting doing meth a year ago. And so ensues. Each person with a far more elaborate story than mine. So, when it comes time for me to speak, I'm apprehensive. "Emily," I mutter. "Sixteen. And not sure what I'm here for."

"What was that, dear? You'll have to speak up," Angie says.

Tiredness begins to cloud my judgment. An intense stabbing feeling courses through my legs. Before so much as a second thought, I snap, "I. Don't. Know."

Silence falls quickly, mind the slow, muffled breathing of my fellow newcomers. I fixate on Angie, whose calm demeanor vanishes instantly. Icy features take the place of previously warm ones. "Are you saying that you've been wrongly admitted?" she retorts. "Do you have an evil twin, Ms. Fields?"

"No," I mumble, regaining control of a cranky tongue.

Angie readjusts in her seat, elbows on her knees. Leaning over in my direction. "I'll treat you like a child as long as you react like one. You're not a child, are you?" I shake my head, not once breaking her gaze. "That's what I thought," she says, leaning back. "You're not a victim, either. None of you are. And the sooner everyone recognizes this, the better."

I don't make another sound over the hour. Even as the others in my group answer Angie's countless questions, I listen intently. Arms crossed, paying close attention. Just enough to appease the counselor. After she recites the creed, ending our meeting, her attention shifts to a list. Last name is paired with another last name. The mentor assignments that Dr. Evans mentioned earlier, I assume.

When my name is omitted, I'm forced to confront Angie. "Excuse me," I stutter. "I don't have a partner."

"Last name?" she spits. I respond, waiting as she flips the page over. All of this while muttering, "Fields. Fields. Fields." under her breath. Moments later, her finger taps against the clipboard. "Here you are. Consider yourself lucky, Ms. Fields. She's a good one. Your mentor has the orientation work shift today, but will be back tomorrow."

"Who is it?" I ask. "What's her name?" Praying that it isn't someone I've already met. Someone I've already pissed off.

"McCullers," she reads. "Paige McCullers."


	3. Meets, Greets, and Departures

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.**_

**dotylink64: I certainly appreciate your words. Thanks for taking the time to review.**

* * *

Every morning for the next week is accompanied with a blistering headache, cold sweats, and cramps. I must be tossing and turning throughout the night, for my roommate cuts her eyes whenever the early bell rings. She has still yet to speak with me.

This morning, as she changes into plain clothes instead of the two-week scrubs, I gaze at her small pile in the corner of the room. I left a half of the nightstand for her taking, but she seems insistent on secrecy. When she leaves to shower, I spring from bed and to the corner. Maybe she's been prescribed something I'm denied. An iPod, pair of glasses, and old photo are all that sit in the duffel bag. The picture is of my roommate and a baby. On the back it reads: _Avery and little Teresa. May, 2013._ Two months ago.

In a moment of attempted relaxation, I peer through the window as I did every morning at home. At home, though, there are no bars. At home, there is no massive, god forsaken tree blocking my view. Just another reminder that I am not at home, and won't be for six excruciating months.

I quickly shower and tear off toward the cafeteria, praying for a change in the menu. Thankfully, as opposed to the inedible assortment they've been serving, oatmeal is being ladled into bowls. My gratitude is cut short, however, at first taste. It's lukewarm. Gummy. Enough to make you miss the powdered eggs. And to think, I'm with the first loop. Imagine what it'll taste like in thirty minutes. I can't, so I lean against the wall, at least enjoying the silence meal times offer. Solace. No expectation to speak with anyone. My kind of meal.

After we're dismissed from breakfast, Angie waits in the foyer. She's directing traffic toward the window used for prescription pickups, even though they aren't usually until after group sessions. The counselor spots me and points to the line, eyes trained on her clipboard. "No therapy today, Fields. Mentors are taking patients on a tour of the facility."

"But I-"

"Think of it as a field trip, Ms. Fields," she sighs, clicking her pen. "I would've figured that you of all people would be ecstatic to have a day off."

Of course I'm excited for a day away from sitting in a circle, rambling on about our feelings. But I've yet to meet with my mentor. This McCullers character has had a convenient excuse for rescheduling each day. Quite frankly, I'm less worried about meeting her than I am about her not wanting to meet me. Favorable comments from a mentor could be my only ticket out of this place.

When I approach the window, three peppermints wait in a small, white cup. Dr. Andrews snickers from behind the counter, shooing me away with a flick of his wrist. "Headache, dude," I protest.

"You're_ my_ headache, dude," he mocks. "Now run along."

Not much in the mood for arguing, I eventually do, joining the other scrub-clad patients. Some stand around, making small talk. Others keep to themselves. I join the latter until a short, blonde girl approaches me, extending her hand. "Calley," she introduces.

"Emily," I mutter, trying to keep the conversation at a minimum.

But this doesn't thwart the girl, for she persists in grinning from ear to ear. "Who's your mentor? I got Drew, one of the older girls."

My head pulses at her cheeriness. "Uhh, Paige McCullers?" I say. "Haven't met her yet."

Calley's dumb grin disappears at the explanation. Instead, she turns and calls out, "Jamie. Malcolm. Come here." As they approach, she finishes with, "Emily here got stuck with Paige McCullers."

The boy I assume to be Malcolm grimaces. "That's shit luck. Heard that chick's a psycho." Jamie nods in agreement, but our exchange is cut short by the sound of someone yelling. A girl bangs atop the metal counter, yelling obscenities at Dr. Andrews. Both he and Dr. Evans try calming her to no avail. In a flash, two security guards appear and grab the girl's arms, dragging her away. She thrashes all the while.

I think to Angie's comment from the other day. _Consider yourself lucky, Ms. Fields._ At this point, lucky is exactly how I feel. Grateful that I didn't lash out when Dr. Andrews made his sly remark. Lucky that I'm not being dragged away into an unknown future. A mass of plain clothed people enter, many smiling at certain patients in our group. One by one, my crowd dissipates. Malcolm, Jamie, and Calley leave with their partners. Here I stand, all alone and waiting.

That is, until someone taps my shoulder. I turn, meeting an extended hand. The someone says, "Paige." I don't respond, though. For Angie's voice booms in my head. And I stand, thinking, _Right. Lucky me._

The brunette from my first day stands in front. Her eyes are narrowed in, arm still extended. Waiting for me to speak, undoubtedly. No words form, however. Instead, all of my worries, fears, and anxiety clump in the back of my throat. Of all people, _her?_ No, this can't be. I turn around, searching for Angie. To say that she's made a terrible mistake. But Paige and I are alone in the foyer.

"Emily?" she eventually asks. I'm forced to face her once more, nodding dumbly. Paige's scowl doesn't falter. She merely reels her arm in and flips open a manila folder, handing me a sheet of paper. "We're supposed to meet twice a day for at least thirty minutes each. I'll run through this checklist. Ask you basic questions. And when we're finished, I'll sign off on this," she produces another paper, "sheet. Then we'll be done. Simple enough?"

The words move at a mile a minute, and I struggle to process them. But I nod anyway, just as she turns on a heel and walks down the hallway. I'm forced to run in pursuit. "I think we're supposed to spend the day together," I pant.

Paige huffs in annoyance before signaling for me to follow. We walk in silence as she points out the same locations I've already been introduced to. The dormitories. A massive window overlooking the courtyard. I glance down as sporadic pairs move across the lawn, laughing and joking alongside each other. We visit the pool last, and a pang of nostalgia hits me. How I long to be back in the water. Feel as every worry disappears with stroke after stroke. My thoughts are interrupted with a cough from Paige, who signals toward a closet a few yards away.

She draws a pair of keys, unlocking the door and revealing a multitude of cleaning supplies. Mops, buckets, brooms. Chemicals for days stacked on tall shelves. "Grab a mop," she instructs, filling a large, rolling bucket with water. "And I trust that you'll be responsible around the chemicals." It's a pointed insinuation, but I nod in understanding.

We spend the next few hours tending to various rooms. Offices, classrooms. Floors in need of sweeping and mopping. Paige works the tabletops, scrubbing until light beams clearly from each. It's tense the entire time. I don't dare try speaking. Instead, I sulk in thoughts of the other pairs. Longing to be in their shoes. Being friendly. Talkative. _Not_ doing janitorial work. When the lunch bell finally rings, my mind is too tired to sulk any longer.

"Figure we'll take care of our meetings at breakfast and lunch," Paige says, lifting her tray to receive a salad. "Just to get them out of the way." I revert back to internal sulking, realizing that two of three of my cherished periods will be ruined. She must realize this, for she stops the line and adds, "Unless there's a more convenient time for you?" It's not a question. It's an accusation.

I force a smile, not wanting her to get the best of me. Simultaneously, though, I scour her face, trying to decipher the code that is my mentor. "Breakfast and lunch," I agree. "They sound…great."

In the minutes that follow, my migraine returns in full strength. So much so that I'm forced to give up on eating and place two firm fingers to either side of my head. The brunette's frown disappears as she digs through a pocket, producing two small, white tablets. I'm hesitant at first, but eventually comply. Silently hoping that she's provided the service Dr. Andrews refuses to. That is, until she says, "Don't act so terrified. It's aspirin. For the headache."

I nod in thanks. Paige gets up from the table and returns her tray, sliding back in across from me. She folds her hands, eyes narrowing into mine. "We're not the same, you and me. Sure, we're both stuck in the _glorious_ place that is known as Piney Groves," she sing-songs. "But I don't get giddy over two aspirin. Never have, and from the looks of you junkies that roll in every three months, I doubt that I ever will."

Who pissed in this girl's Cheerios? Honestly, where does she get off on being judgmental? With making backhanded comments? We're both in the same situation. Operating under the same rules. Suffering through the same hell. I resist the urge to bite my tongue and take her abuse. Knowing that the longer I allow it, the more it will reign down. "Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, mentoring me?"

Paige scoffs, picking up the sheet of paper from earlier and skimming it. "Emily Fields. Seventeen-years-old. Daughter of Pam and Wayne Fields. Enjoys hanging with friends, spending time with family, and," she leans over from behind the sheet, "swimming?" Paige's lower lip pokes out as she nods, flashing a look of mock fascination. "No diagnosis, unfortunately. So tell me, Emily Fields. Why are you here?"

"Isn't that, like, an unspoken rule of these places? No asking 'why'?" I ask.

Paige uprights in mock surprise again. She relaxes before mimicking my voice, saying, "This isn't prison." She laughs one more time before finishing with, "This isn't Fight Club, either."

My silence must be taken as permission to advance, for she leans across the table, placing a hand to my chin, and pulling it down. "Coated, pasty tongue. You look like you haven't slept for days." Paige then nudges my arm, causing a muffled cry of pain on my behalf. "Intense bone pain. And you're shivering." She mulls it over a moment longer before concluding, "Pain killers. Prescription stuff."

Refuting the analysis is hopeless. Much like arguing with Paige. "Then what are you here for?" I spit.

She shrugs at the question before standing up from our table. "I hurt someone very, very badly," she breathes into my ear, scribbling on the paper and exiting the cafeteria.

_She's psychotic. Bat shit crazy. _These are the only thoughts that flow through my mind for the rest of the day and well into night. In the upstairs common room- an area with three couches, a microwave, refrigerator, and television- my newly acquired friends from earlier are together. They're hunkered over a fold-out table, whispering. I approach, silencing their conversation.

"She lives," Malcolm jokes, giving Jamie a playful nudge.

I pull a chair out, sitting nearest Calley. "Score yourselves a Great Dane and I'll start calling you Shaggy," I return, pointing to Malcolm. He leans back, a hand clutched to his chest. "You three weren't kidding. Paige is definitely something else."

"My mentor said she runs through patients like clockwork. Most don't make it past the first week," Jamie chimes in. With the attention to detail, she eerily reminds me of Spencer. Well, if Spencer had sores covering her arms, scraggly teeth, and fidgeted a lot.

I sigh loudly. "We'll see how long I can make it."

My comment catches the trio's attention, for they shift around the table, eyes locking with the others'. In a second, Calley looks to me. "Maybe you won't have to," she whispers. "Listen, Emily. We've been doing some thinking. And a place like this- it's not good for people like us. We've decided to check out a little early."

"This isn't a voluntary program, though," I protest. "You can't just come and go as you please."

Calley places a hand on my shoulder, eliciting a wince. "It's not involuntary, either," she breathes. "This shoulder of yours, it's in pain, right?" I nod. Very much in pain. Especially since anything to stifle the ache is well out of reach. "Imagine going home and getting this taken care of. Making the pain go away. You want the pain to go away, right?" I nod again. Calley smiles victoriously. "Good. Besides, I'm sure that I speak for the group when I say that while we plan on going, _none_ of us plan on coming back."

"Have lunch with us tomorrow," Malcolm offers. "So we can figure the rest of this stuff out."

I shake my head, explaining that Paige is insistent that we meet at mealtimes. "That's odd. Most mentors schedule in the free period," Jamie adds.

Suddenly pressed for time, they lean over and begin plotting any possible route leading away from the building. Tomorrow is visitation day, which will leave things flustered by nightfall. Counselors will be tired. Security worn down from the tedious afternoon. It's perfect timing. All of our rooms are on the second story, though, which throws a wrench in the equation. I mention the window bars, to which Jamie dismisses, "I'll take care of that. The biggest issue is climbing down. These clothes aren't much for tying together." She demonstrates by attempting a knot with her shirt tail. It slips through, unwinding at the slightest aggravation.

It takes a second for the realization to hit me, but when it does, I practically choke on air. _Of course._ This morning, while I was picking through Avery's things. The hideous tree. "Guys," I choke out. "I think I know just where to go."

I'm panicked at bedtime and well into the next day. At breakfast, Paige and I hardly speak, mind the mandatory questions. She signs the paper and is about to leave when I ask, "Why do we meet so early? Why not in the free period? You know, like the other groups." _Not like it'll matter after tonight._

"The _other _groups don't have to earn their keep around here," Paige snaps. "I need to work, which takes a while. And that means that we meet early. Unless you'd like yesterday to be an everyday thing."

I keep silent as she storms from the cafeteria. Things are more hectic today, as was explained yesterday in the common room. A line of people wait outside of the glass doors, leading up to Desk Clerk Brett's station. Identifications are swapped in for visitor's passes. Bags are briefly checked. I lean against the upstairs balcony, watching from afar as patients meet at makeshift tables that are splayed across the foyer. None of them wear our scrubs. That rule was made very clear on my first day. You get visitors when you earn them.

None of the patients or their visitors are recognizable. That is, except for Avery. She's greeted by two people my parents' age. They carry a baby, passing her along into my roommate's arms. It doesn't take a second glance to recognize a mother holding her child. I suddenly feel guilty for unknown reason.

Another scan shows Paige, who is nestled into a fold-up chair. She taps her foot, hands folded together. Waiting nervously for someone. This isn't the same Paige who's been giving me immense amounts of grief. The same Paige that forever wanders around in a perennial funk. The same Paige that doesn't know an emotional state outside of pessimism. Instead, this Paige looks soft. Frantic. A painful combination of excited and uncertain.

I stand at my perch for the next five hours, breaking only to use the restroom. Eyes trained on Paige. She waits as I do, face falling with each guest that enters. When time is called, visitors and patients say their goodbyes. Paige storms off, looking on the verge of tears.

"You ready?" a voice calls from behind. Calley walks up, Malcolm and Jamie in tow.

Night falls fast. By the time the ten o'clock curfew bell sounds, Avery has yet to return to our room. Which isn't odd behavior, for she usually camps out in the common room, watching television until about midnight. Calley, Jamie, Malcolm, and I sit atop both beds, discussing the plan a final time.

"A mad dash by the lake," Calley explains, "and we're home free." Three pairs of eyes nod in unison.

But my mind isn't entirely on getting out. Instead, it replays the image from earlier. How beaten Paige looked. So fragile. I can't help but to think that she, much like the rest of us, is just trying to make it through each day. After all, she's been here far longer than I. Paige must have people at home. Maybe her parents dropped her as mine did. Maybe she begged to go home with them. Promised to clean up her act. As much as it pains me, I can't help but to feel a bit sorry for Paige McCullers.

Basking in said sorrow is short-lived, however, for Calley gives me a nudge. "You're not getting cold feet, are you?" As the clear ring leader of this operation, she's the one responsible for worrying. The one putting everything into place. The one asking all of the questions.

I shake my head furiously, inwardly hoping that if I shake hard enough, my pity toward Paige will be expelled. We then wait until the hour's end. Keeping an ear craned to the door, listening for sounds of my roommate approaching. The sounds never come. Jamie produces a screw driver, intently focused on the window bars. Malcolm peeks around her, surveying the land below, before giving Calley a thumbs up.

"This is it," Calley boasts cheerfully, locking the room's door. "Our time together has been short, but fun, nonetheless. Godspeed." Dramatic. Fitting for the girl I met only a day ago.

She's the first to scale through the window, poking a leg onto the nearest branch. A quick touch proves its sturdiness. Jamie is the next to exit. Followed by Malcolm. He shoots me a nervous look, but forces a smile just before his face disappears below the window pane.

I'm about to climb through when something goes terribly wrong. Looking below, I witness as all hell breaks loose. Maybe the weight of three teenagers is too much. Maybe we were all too focused on escaping that we overlooked the simplest, most minor details. Regardless of the lapse in judgment, present refuses to forgive the past. Calley struggles with her footing. And in a split second, her feeble frame topples to the ground, screams of agony ringing through the night.

Even worse, several floodlights kick on. Motion censored, I assume. With the wattage burning against pitch black, a shrill alarm begins blaring.

Time stands still as chaos starts to unfold. I count six security guards darting across the lawn. Jamie must have reached the ground intact, for she sprints in the opposite direction. The escapade is halted at the hands of another guard that rounds the corner. He wrestles her to the ground in seconds. As for Malcolm- well, he's frozen to the tree. Eyes wide under the dark cover of leaves. Clinging on for dear life.

Flashlights begin pointing upward, and I snatch my head away in time enough to escape their focus. Panic sets in, but a bodily stupor nails me in position. Everything begins to fade out. The room. Outside. The alarm that continues to ring out. In a moment, though, adrenaline courses through my veins and my senses hone in.

And I snap to in time to hear the click of a door opening behind me.


	4. Sicker Than You Thought

**Author's Note: ****I understand that I haven't been updating, and I apologize for that. I've only just finished another piece, and will now be able to dedicate all of my free time to this one. If you're still around, I thank you. (As a side note: the chapters will grow lengthier as the story progresses.)**

**dotylink64: This isn't soon, I know. I apologize. It will be 'soon' from here on out, I promise. And I do thank you for taking the time to read/review.**

**WhatAWayToFall: I do intend on keeping with it, lol. So I thank you. And I will include back stories as this piece progresses. Promise. As always, thank you for taking the time to read/review.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.**_

* * *

A hand grabs hold of my arm and tugs, yanking me from the window. I follow as a string of brown hair pulls me from the room and down a hallway. Turn. More hurried walking. A closet door flings open and we barrel inside. A body holds firm against mine, hot breath continuous against my jaw.

Seconds pass. Then minutes. My heart beats in tandem with the siren, slowing only as it quiets then fades away. A mysterious hand scales the wall, reaching for something. Then a click sounds and light fills the cramped space. Peering into me are Paige's narrowed eyes.

"A key for every room, huh?" I ask jokingly.

"Perk of cleaning up after junkies," she dismisses. "Now be quiet."

We remain in the same position for a handful of minutes, listening as feet scuffle outside. I recognize Dr. Evans's voice from afar. Even at a distance, she sounds collected. Very procedural. As if an incident like this occurs every week. "There was another person in this room. Find them," she barks.

The door knob jiggles once, forcing me to hold my breath. When the person outside becomes disinterested, I'm allowed to exhale. Paige continues focusing on the outside, craning her ear to the door as I take inventory of our temporary sanctuary. Cleaning supplies litter metal shelving. Mops and brooms are sporadically placed. It's a similar sight to the downstairs closet. Smaller, though.

Paige's focus shifts to the area's back, maneuvering her body away from mine and to a bucket. "Seriously? A _tree?_" she eventually asks.

I shrug, not entirely sure of how to explain. Instead, I try making light of the situation. "It's kind of like the air raids they talked about in school. Sirens blaring. People huddled up in small spaces."

"The only downfall being that there is a zero percent chance of us being blown to pieces," she snaps, now rummaging through empty bucket after empty bucket.

Aside from her never-ending bad mood, I remember earlier. Watching her wait for someone that never showed. Truthfully, I'd probably act the same. And more so, I'd want someone to vent to. So I ask, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Paige finds her prize. A bucket halfway filled with mucky water. "Being blown up? Not really," she answers, reaching for my arm. When I'm hovering over a drain, she commands, "Lean over."

"Wha-" but a firm grip pushes my shoulder until I'm bent at the waist. A cool sensation follows. That is, until I realize that the same mucky water is running down the side of my face. I watch as chunks of dirt gather at the drain. Paige throws a towel at my face.

She then returns to the door, turning the knob ever so slightly. It creaks open, a small gap of light invading the space. In an instant, she pulls me from the closet and back down the hallway. In nearing my room, Paige says, "Your form could use some work, but other than that, I think you'll be a great addition to the team."

Dr. Evans looks to our pair, shooting a questionable glance. "It's after curfew, girls. Where have you been?"

Paige speaks up before I can respond. "She was curious about joining the swim team. Figured I'd take her to the pool. Get some laps in. See what she's made of." She then cranes her neck, cocking an eyebrow. "What happened _here_?"

"I could ask your friend the same," Dr. Evans says, glaring at me. "Any input?"

I cough, looking to Paige, whose eyes beckon me to respond. "I've been with Paige the entire time."

This isn't enough to suppress Dr. Evans, unfortunately. For she uprights, crosses her arms, and returns to my mentor. "Calley, Malcolm, and Jamie all attest to Emily being in the room. Now—"

"With all due respect, Dr. Evans, you're going to believe _them_?" Paige interjects.

"I'm not sure what I believe at this point, Ms. McCullers," she quickly says. "But I will find out what happened here. And when I do, there will be ramifications." A few tense moments pass before the doctor twirls a hand and runs it through her hair, sighing loudly. "Ms. Fields will be staying in your room in the meantime. Until we can figure things out."

Paige is about to protest when I force a smile and nod, saying, "Sounds great."

* * *

Evidently, being the biggest bitch in Piney Groves earns you a room for yourself. Or, at least, it seems to be the case for Paige. "I wouldn't bother unpacking," she says when I enter with an armful of belongings. "This is only temporary." Sleeplessness is still very prevalent in my life, so I lay awake in bed, listening as Paige sleeps quietly. By morning, she's maneuvered from the room without my noticing.

My next group therapy session is tense, to say the least. Everyone sits, leaned back and arms crossed, refusing to answer Angie's questions. That is, until she huffs in defeat and says, "What happened last night has nothing to do with any of us. So we mustn't allow it to affect the progress each of you has made." Progress. Yes. Progress.

I'm content in accepting her disregard, but a girl from across the circle clearly isn't. I think her name's Sarah. "I just have a hard time believing that any of it was Avery's fault. She was so intent with finishing and getting out of this place." Then Sarah's eyes cut across to me.

The tall, lanky guy chimes in as well. "I agree. Avery was really proud about doing so well."

Everyone nods in agreement. "We're looking into things," Angie dismisses. "Until then, I need everyone to focus on themselves. Agreed?" Everyone nods again.

When the time comes to an end, and Angie makes us each recite the creed from the wall, I'm in a hurry to be free of the cramped space. The counselor has other plans, it seems, for she catches my arm near the door. I'm then ushered to a side away from the opening. "Whoever's responsible for what happened is going to be in a mess of trouble," she says matter-of-factly. "Dr. Evans will undoubtedly want to speak with you again. Ask you questions. If you weren't in that room, be honest and everything will work out." She pauses, mulling over the words. "Don't let the other patients get you down, okay? They're just surprised, as we all are."

I nod in understanding, feeling as the confined area becomes ten times smaller. The walls feel as if they're slowly closing in. Angie must realize my discomfort, for she nods in return, releasing my arm.

* * *

When lunchtime rolls around, I am entirely mentally drained. My throat feels as if a barrel of cotton has been forced down it. I'm also sure that I've been sweating since this morning. Paige is situated at our usual table in the corner, picking at a tray of food.

"I am one hundred percent freaking the fuck out," I admit, snapping her to attention. Her expression doesn't shift, however, and I think to the night before. "Oh, and thanks for what you did."

She finally grunts and responds with, "You get in trouble, I get in trouble. And I don't like getting in trouble."

Paige begins fiddling with the mandatory questions sheet when I mention, "Angie said that I'd have to speak with Dr. Evans again. That she would ask me questions regarding last night. What am I supposed to say?"

"Whatever you please," Paige dismisses, sitting upright. "I can't make decisions for you."

"But you just said that you'd prefer not to be in trouble."

My mentor slaps her hands to the table in frustration. "I thought it was obvious," she mumbles underneath her breath, placing a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. Looking to me, Paige says, "Lie then, Emily. You're used to sneaking around and keeping things from people. Now shouldn't be any different."

I'm taken aback by her pointedness. Further insinuation. "She has a baby," I say. "How am I supposed to act nonchalant and go about my days knowing that Avery won't get to see her for even longer?"

"Visitation is once a week," Paige waves away. "Once a week is more than perfect in my book."

_Right._ Is this jealousy? Resentment? Bitterness toward somebody who actually had their visitors show up? Who wasn't left waiting for four hours, all to be disappointed? Who isn't forced to swallow said disappointment? As Paige skims over the checklist, initialing on small lines, the sympathetic feeling creeps back in. That pang in my chest that makes me actually feel _sorry_ for someone as vile as she. And so I ask, "Do you want to talk about it _now_?" When she shoots me a questioning glance, I elaborate. "The other day. When whoever you were waiting on didn't show."

Something registers in her existentially hardened expression. Pain. She bites her bottom lip. So much so that it turns white before she says anything. "First question," she breathes, ignoring my remark. "How do you feel today as compared to yesterday?"

"No different," I spit. "Because my mentor insists that I talk about my issues when she blatantly refuses to speak about hers."

Paige continues looking to the paper as she hums, "Because it's not my job to talk about my problems. My job is to talk about _yours_." Her face then appears from behind and she asks, "So are we going to, or what?"

"I don't know," I return. "Are we?"

This is enough to disgruntle my mentor, for she hastily folds the paper, shoves it into her pocket, and says, "I don't suppose we are," before darting out of the cafeteria.

* * *

Later that night, as I'm tossing and turning yet again, plagued with a sickly stomach, there's a knock on our door. Paige has been gently snoring for the past three hours, so I take the liberty of answering. As luck should have it, Dr. Evans stands with her arms crossed and foot tapping, patiently waiting. "Come along," she then says, motioning for me to follow.

I do, and we eventually wind up in a dreary looking office. Dull colors, much like the rest of the building. A diploma hangs on the wall, but aside from that, there isn't much as far as decorum goes. The chill of a cold metal chair breaks me from a carnal stupor.

"I apologize for such an early wake up call," the doctor begins, ruffling through a stack of folders. I look to her desktop clock and realize the time. Four a.m. "There are just a few more things I'd like to have cleared up by morning."

I merely nod. "Of course."

"Your roommate, Avery—she's been quite the patient in her stay. Never one to cause trouble. Always attends her meetings. Hasn't really made much noise in the past couple of months," Dr. Evans says, twisting her lips with each word. "So it strikes me as odd that she would pull such a stunt."

"Desperate times," I breathe, not sure of what else to say.

Dr. Evans nods and cuts her eyes to me, wave after wave of suspicion crashing down on my frail, now guilt-ridden spirit. "Considering that we operate solely on a code of honor here at Piney Groves, I'm in quite the position. So I need you to think long and hard of what I'm about to ask you." I nod in understanding. "Are you absolutely positive that you had nothing to do with what took place two nights ago?"

Instinct tells me to confess. That my whole reason of coming here has been to make drastic changes. Opting for the truth would go a long way to smooth that beginning over. Another voice tells me otherwise. Paige's voice. _Lie then, Emily. _Hadn't she pulled me from that room for good reason? Or was she merely protecting her hide? Regardless of what I choose, someone is bound to get hurt. I will not be the lone victim of my actions.

Instinct loses all leverage. With a gentle coaxing of my morals, I begin nodding my head once more. "I was with Paige the entire time."

With a deep breath, Dr. Evans blinks twice and says, "Very well. Run along, Emily. I suppose you'll want a few more hours of sleep."

In a flash, I'm up and darting out of the room. Even quicker, it seems, are scrubbed orderlies rushing past me. Their footsteps echo into the silent hallway. As does the voice of a shrieking girl being woken from her slumber, now struggling against some outside force.

Paige is awake when I return to our room. She lies, head propped against her hand, as if she's a small child waiting for Santa's arrival. "You're still here, so I gather that you took my advice."

"Unfortunately," I say. "Though I wouldn't necessarily call it advice. More like terrible guidance, really." A quiet moment passes before I ask, "Am I supposed to feel this shitty?"

"Not a therapist," Paige hums, rolling over.

I plop into bed. "What's going to happen to her?"

"Not a psychic, either."

"Christ," I breathe into the darkness, annoyed.

She snickers. "I prefer to be called Paige."

"No decent advice. No input," I say a bit more loudly, disregarding her last comment. "It's a wonder how you got put into a position of authority."

"My stunning good looks, mostly," she laughs. "I will say, though, I'm the fortunate one. God, I wish this place had popcorn. It'd make watching this shitstorm you've created all the more entertaining."

For a split-second, I'm overcome with the urge to smother her. Pure pillow-to-the-face action. Just to prevent another snide remark from ever falling from those lips again. It'd be more a public service than anything. Eventually, suppressing the itch to murder my roommate, I revert to equally low remarks and call out, "Tell me, if you're such a popular person here, then why'd you get stood up at visitation?"

It's enough to stifle my mentor's quick tongue. Later on, when the weight of my actions and withdrawal hit in tandem, I'm coaxed from bed and into the bathroom, where my lung just about comes up in a fit of dry-heaving. Only when I return is my response given in the form of Paige's strangled, muffled cries.

* * *

When morning comes, I don't see any of my former acquaintances. They've all vanished in the aftermath of Hurricane Break Out of This Place. Paige meets me for breakfast, as agreed, but doesn't bring up the night before. Neither do I. Instead, we eat in tense silence. Sounds of silverware against metal trays harmoniously filling the void.

For the day's progression, I receive cutting glances from patients that I've never even noticed, let alone manage to anger. It seems that word travels fast.

So, when free time ensues, I head toward the only place that's ever brought me peace of mind. A former home. The one place where I'm untouchable. Where aching limbs against lukewarm water are proof enough that I am Emily Fields and not a ghost of myself.

And when I'm forced from the pool with intense nausea, who else should I find waiting other than Paige? She stands, half-smirking and holding a towel. Not sure of her motives, I reflexively begin searching for empathy. Signs that this girl bears even the slightest fraction of human emotion. "When's the pain supposed to stop?" I ask.

Eyes shifting to her forearm, mockingly checking a nonexistent watch, she returns, "Still not a shrink."

"Physically, I mean."

Paige's smirk grows as she takes on the voice of a news anchor. "In a startling new twist of events, Emily Fields comes to the realization that among other professions that she does not practice, Paige McCullers is no doctor." I dip into the water to silence her sarcasm. Buoying up, I hear a stern voice command, "Now get out."

"Figured that the swim team charade was our cover."

Only now does she kneel closer to the pool, shaking her head. "Swim team's for recovering patients," she says. "For the ones who talk about their problems. I suppose we'll have to come up with a different alibi for you."

"I haven't done anything wrong," is all I manage. That is, until I realize just how much I _have_ done wrong. "Ten more minutes, please."

"Needy isn't a good look on you," she chides. "Out."

Taking her scolding as answer enough, I climb from the water, instantly missing its soothing effect. Must things always be this difficult? Is there ever a moment when being in her presence won't feel so much like a job? Of course not. Paige eats, breathes, and sleeps confrontation. Her very being is devoted to making others' lives hell.

Which leads me back to wondering what her motive was in pulling me out of the room. Surely, she could've passed me off as a distressed newbie. She could've easily gotten out of trouble. Played dumb. Leveraged her tenure. I've come to realize that seeking the answers of too many whys only gets you into trouble. After all, it's why I'm here. Searching for answers that would never come. Harnessing the temporary relief of my mother's pain medications when the pain of not knowing became too much of a weight on my mind.

As I near the double doors, only one question pops into my head. One that I soon ask. "You didn't care if I lied or not, did you? You didn't care what happened after."

"All for good reason," she says in very Mister Miagi fashion. "Life has this weird way of testing us, Emily. You'll figure that out soon enough."

She climbs onto the platform, and just before Paige dives into the pool, I mutter under my breath, "Funny. I thought you preferred to be called Paige."

* * *

I don't realize how heated my face has grown until I'm back in our room, undressing from the copped swimsuit. Paige will undoubtedly smuggle it back into the locker room before too long. And then I'm thinking of Paige. _Paige. Paige. Paige. Fucking Paige._

The mere thought of her name burns into my cheeks. Fuels an internal rage that instantly cripples me. A newly-proven hatred that ripples into my core. I sprawl out in bed, shifting my sight across each wall. Searching for a single spot to focus on. A distraction.

Instead, my eyes train on Paige's nightstand. A small, orange cylinder sits atop it. Much like the ones in my mother's medicine cabinet, the bottle contains tiny white capsules. Again, instinct screams the exact opposite of what my body decides. Reaching across, I unscrew the cap and dump three into my hand, taking them in one swallow and leaning back against the bed. Hopefully, a dulled haze will calm my nerves. A trip on the cloud, as the old Emily might've called it.

I must have fallen asleep, because when my eyes open, Paige sits on the side of her bed, aimlessly peering into the bottle. She proceeds to a dump a handful out. Then, with both eyes trained on me, one hand begins picking through the pile. One by one, the white caplets are moved about. I nervously swallow when her mouth opens to speak.

"You were right," she whispers. "Earlier, when I told you to lie, it wasn't necessarily for anyone's benefit. I only wanted to see which you'd choose. Get a sense of who I was dealing with."

I remain still, nerves growing by the second. With each word that comes forth, the knot in my chest tightens.

"You know, if there's any chance of me helping you, then we're going to have to talk about your problems. And no, you will not step foot in that pool until we do. Can we at least agree on that?"

Anxious, I quickly respond, "Sure. But just so we're clear, I don't need you to help me. Not in _that_ sense, at least. There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not sick or anything."

At this, Paige laughs. The kind of eerie chuckle that haunts you in your sleep. Like when your parents are really pissed off but don't yell. Rather, they speak calmly and methodically. Well, I've just been caught with my hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.

"You know, I always knew that you were a liar. How else would you have been able to get away with abusing substances? You're weak. Susceptible to temptation. Pathetic, even." She then pulls my hand out, palm facing up, and splits one of the white objects in half. A clear granulated substance pours free. Clearing her throat, she says, "But you never struck me as a sugar fiend."

Anger. Humiliation. A slight sense of betrayal. All of these course through my veins. _Body, have your pick_.

When the moment passes, Paige stands up, a mask of disappointment spread across her features. In the open doorway, she looks back a final time and mutters, "All I'm saying is, maybe you're sicker than you think."


	5. Field Trips and Reality Checks

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters._**

**redgirl25: Well, I most certainly appreciate that. Hopefully, this will shed some light. (I definitely plan on uncovering more in the future.) And I most certainly thank you for taking the time to read and review with such complimentary words.**

**Guest: A week is more bearable, yeah? Lol. I'm glad to see that her personality is surfacing, and certainly plan on elaborating more with these next chapters. As for the updates- they should be spaced out no more than a week at a time. As always, I thank you for taking the time to read and make your voice heard.**

* * *

_"In light of recent events, we'd like to remind you all that should any further misconduct take place on or off facility grounds, the authorities will be involved. No questions asked."_

_Click. _This is what I wake up to.

Considering that I've now been at Piney Groves for the better part of a month, I'm finally allotted the joy of wearing _my_ clothes. Not the paper-thin crap that bunches up if you turn too quickly. Paige delivered the news last night when she returned to our room, though she didn't seem terribly enthused in communicating my newly appointed small freedom.

Early this morning, far before the breakfast bell rings, I quickly throw on my favorite combination—plaid and jeans, and sneak off before my mentor wakes. Down a series of winding hallways is Dr. Evans's office, where I plan on asking to borrow her phone. If only to call Mom and Dad and hear their voices. See how their lives are carrying on. Maybe casually mention taking me out of this wretched place.

It isn't until I'm about three feet shy of the doorway that the idea sets in. _This is what she wants._ Obviously. Yesterday was just the beginning. Surely Paige has sick intentions of forcing me out. Sending me into the arms of my parents. All like a damn child.

So, when I finally step into the office, and as both Dr. Evans and Angie's eyes meet mine, I change pursuits. I'll stay, but there's no chance that I'm sticking around _her_. "Emily, is there something I can help you with?" the doctor asks.

"There is," I say, voice catching. "I'd like to be paired with a new mentor. Paige just isn't working out."

Both women chuckle to themselves. "Do tell," Angie begins, "how could Paige possibly not be working out? She just happens to be the most successful trustee we've had. A huge turnover rate, but nonetheless successful with those who don't chicken out."

Ignoring the obvious mocking on my counselor's behalf, I protest, "I'm no wimp. She's absolutely batshit crazy. A total nut case. And to top it all off, she's screwing with my head." I tap twice on my temple for added effect. "I mean, one minute she's being a total bitch, and the next she's crying. I just—I can't deal."

Dr. Evans grunts before looking to Angie, who returns the glance, nods, and looks to me before saying, "Our hands are tied. If she hasn't physically harmed you, then I believe your only hope will be to have her request a new partner." A moment passes before the counselor uprights, a look of concern penetrating her features. "Unless she has. Been violent, I mean. Has she? You can trust us, Emily."

As easy as it would be to lie, it would be far more difficult coaxing the lie into truth. "No. She's done nothing of the sort. But—"

I can't squeak out another word before a dismissive hand is waved. Both women sigh, seemingly relieved. Angie merely says, "Then I'm afraid you're going to have to _deal_."

Slightly defeated and even more agitated by their apathy, I turn to leave. That process is also quickly shut down when Dr. Evans speaks up. "Oh, and Ms. Fields." I turn, catching her intense glare. The announcement this morning contained a message. I suggest you pay close attention to what it was saying."

"Of course," I mutter.

* * *

_Paige, get rid of me? There's no way. She's far too fixated on making my stay as miserable as possible to give up such a golden opportunity,_ I think on the short journey to the cafeteria. First bell has only just ringed, and if I hurry, the food might actually be hot enough to eat.

I muscle into the line's third spot, only to be nudged into fourth by a long, bony arm. There's no use in getting into a twist, for I've already seen what they're serving this morning. Quite frankly, it wouldn't matter if I was skipped by the next thirty people.

Soon enough, I get settled into the corner table, barely picking at the yellow emulsion on my tray. And even sooner, Paige is sliding in across, plopping her tray down with a thud. She proceeds to say with a mouthful of apple, "You. Me. Field trip. Today."

It's a bit out of character and totally catches me off guard. "No way."

Paige stretches out and leans forward, smacking on yet another bite. "Look, I get it. We got off on the wrong foot. Consider this excursion as a peace offering. A truce. Fresh start for the both of us," she suggests. "I'm willing to try and play nice if you'll agree to do the same."

My head reflexively nods. "But—"

"But nothing, kid. Today, we blow the popsicle stand that is everyday routine."

Dodging bits of the red fruit that fly toward my face with each remark, I say, "But we can't just—"

Suddenly, the apple core plops against my forehead. Paige then deadpans, "Stop talking, please. And no more talk of buts. It's weirding me out. Now go dump your shit. We've got places to be."

I'm not exactly sure why, but I decide to follow her lead. Trust the girl for the time being.

We hurry from the cafeteria and down a series of hallways until we reach a back door, which Paige promptly swings open. On some sort of patio sits a pair of dumpsters. Other than an older man who smiles at my mentor, we're completely alone. And so I follow Paige once more, jumping off of a small ledge and venturing farther until we're nestled underneath a large shade tree.

She places a single finger to her lips and points upward, where the sounds of muffled cries ripple through the early morning. Dr. Andrews, the very man who provokes my headaches with a handful of peppermints each morning, is hunched over the railing, face in palms. Paige snickers, leaning over and whispering, "It's one of few places that aren't under constant surveillance around here. He comes out every morning during breakfast."

Considering the trouble he's given me, I shouldn't feel as bad as I do. But something about watching a grown man cry is always unsettling. Especially when you have no clue why. "Should we say something?"

Paige scoffs. "Hell no. He's probably crying over something unimportant, anyways. Hell, I'd be doing twice the damage if my name was Bert."

This forces a chuckle from me. We don't hang around much longer, eventually tearing off across the massive lawn toward the lake. I'm then lead around to its back where a small wooden fixture juts out. Something practically invisible from the main building.

Pieces of decaying wood protrude in all directions, but it isn't enough to hinder Paige's maneuvering across, tiptoeing from block to block. And when she runs out of footholds, she sits on the edge, feet dangling just above the water. I join her.

We sit for a minute or two in silence. The wind picks up out here, rippling through surrounding trees. It's definitely a place that has potential to be peaceful any time of day.

Paige eventually breaks the trance with a deep sigh. Her eyes sink into themselves as she breathes, "On the list of my favorite places in this world, this easily lands in at number two. You know, after the pool."

I merely nod, not wanting to screw up her recent uplifted spirit with a seemingly negative comment. Mom says that negativity has become my niche. Dad agrees. I usually try to explain that positivity is difficult to maintain when your world's crashing down in every respect, but my tongue always becomes too heavy to speak. I nod at their comments as well.

"We're going to have to talk eventually."

I nod again.

"There are a lot of things that need figuring out, Emily."

Nod.

"Listen, I know that I may come on a little strong." She pauses and takes a deep breath. And just when I think that Paige is actually about to apologize for acting like a heinous monster, she finishes with, "But I mean well. Always have. Always will."

The toe of my shoe barely grazes the water below. It seeps through, dampening the interior of my Converse. Oddly enough, the feeling doesn't bug me. It's a bit refreshing, really. Even if the closest I come to a body of water for the next little while is merely by way of my body's smallest appendage.

Paige doesn't say anything else in her defense, which makes me think that the tranquility of this moment has already been broken. That whatever I say won't botch things up too badly. "What are you here for?" I ask. "I mean, you seem pretty put together. Why be in a place like this?"

Maybe I spoke too soon. Because my mentor's eyes droop just a bit more, her cheek bones rising and falling. Grimacing and settling into a slump. Her brown eyes reflect the sun that now reflects off of the water. The double illumination makes me feel odd. Like watching a movie within a movie. The only difference being that most films are enjoyable, while I feel as though I'm watching a life of pain flash through the two orbs.

With enough time, she inhales sharply and dips her head low, peering into the mucky lake. "I tried to hurt someone very badly," she barely whispers, "and I'm kind of reminded of it every day." I sit still, hoping that she'll continue, only to realize that further elaboration isn't in the cards. "Your turn."

"You already I know," I say quickly and defensively.

She shakes her head and looks to me. "The truth."

"Whatever you heard or read is the truth and nothing but," I admit ashamedly.

"The truth behind the truth, then," she returns, eyes trained on mine.

I can't seem to hold her gaze now. How much more honest can I be? Am I not _here_? As aesthetically appealing as Piney Groves can be, I highly doubt that this is anyone's preferred vacationing spot. Still, though, Paige insists that there's something more. Something that I'm not fully grasping? Some deep-rooted logic that can only come with months' experience in a rehabilitation facility? Nothing makes sense, though it never really has. And yet I'm supposed to see clearly through the fog.

Maybe she expects a drawn out confession of how my life manages to crawl and speed by at the same time. A heartfelt admittance to my love for a single white caplet that makes time come to a standstill. Whatever Paige is asking for, Emily isn't giving. Period.

Recalling the past however many months of harassment Mom, Dad, and I have received from Family Services, I answer, "I was set up, I guess. Someone wanted to see to it that I came here, and they certainly prevailed."

This apparently isn't enough, either, for Paige shakes her head again, only more like a disappointed parent. Or a teacher that claims her students know the answer to a question she never asked. Again, it's confusing business. Much to my thanks, though, she eventually places both hands below and propels herself upward. "Come on," she mutters. "Places to be."

* * *

Instead of wandering any farther out, we trek back toward the facility, but don't enter. Instead, I follow Paige to a set of metal double doors. She keys the lock, swinging it open and revealing an array of maintenance tools. I recognize a handful of them from my multiple mission trips to third world countries.

But she doesn't reach for any of them. Rather, my eyes follow a brown ponytail until it disappears into darkness, followed by the steady drone of an engine. It takes two or three kicks to crank. She then backs out in a cart that reads _Security_, sending a flutter of panic through my bones. "_Paige_" is met with a silencing hand. "Calm your tits, dude. We're going to be all right."

Are we, though? She wasn't awake this morning. She didn't hear the ambiguously direct statement. _"Misconduct". "Authorities". _The words rattle into my ears, up until the point where I'm shaking my head, trying to banish the thoughts. No, no, no. I simply Cannot. Do. That.

Surely enough, we are okay. Up until the edge of the backmost foliage, no one spots us. And when we pass a landscaper type, Paige waves and receives equal courtesy in return.

We're then barreling through the withering forest, easing over fallen branches and through thorny bushes. A patch snags Paige's arm, forcing us to a halt. She doesn't flinch, though. Shows no visible signs of pain. Instead, I watch intently as she rolls up her long sleeve and tends to the wound, plucking thorn after thorn that is lodged into her arm. Blood is drawn. A lengthy yet minor gash is produced. Her expression remains the same.

I barely catch a glimpse of similar scratches on her forearm. Probably from other trips this way. Other "field trips".

Anyway, we soon press on and reach a bush that contains minor gaps of light, allowing movement from behind to leak through. And with a final stomp on the accelerator, we're propelled forward onto a low-cut mass of green. Gentleman clad in khaki, polo, and visors swing away with iron rods. Carts similar to ours wind down narrow pathways. _Of all places to lie just on the outside,_ I think, _a golf course?_

Paige quickly addresses my confusion, explaining, "The Grove used to be a summer camp, hence the dock near the lake. Parents used to drop their kids and come over here."

Makes perfect sense. Get rid of your children, but don't venture far enough away to make them think you're dumping them off, even though it's exactly what you're doing. "My dad would love this place," I say as we fall in line behind another cart. Paige grunts at my comment, pulling ours into a space nearest the course's center.

After I'm given the choice of how we kill the next couple of hours, I initially suggest a dip in the club pool, but my mentor shoots that down. She merely says that we're currently free people and should do what free people do. I don't realize that the ultimate sign of one's freedom involves a tennis racket and dodging a small yellow ball, but it clearly does. And when Paige has decided that winning five games is enough, she sets the racket down, breathing heavily.

I take the down moment to glare at one very massive, very empty swimming pool. One with clear blue water. One that isn't separated by blue lines, forcing its inhabitants to compete for their time in its refreshing, calming liquid. I must be staring too longingly, for the girl behind me begins snickering. As I snap to, I shake my head multiple times, trying to leverage a cool façade.

The tactic doesn't work, either, but Paige appears to lighten up. In fact, she stands again, tosses the tennis ball into the air, and swings as hard as she possibly can. Within seconds, a sphere of yellow begins floating amid the blue mass. I look back, to which she smiles and nods, sending me in a dead sprint to retrieve it.

Granted, I linger much longer than it takes to get my hands on the ball, basking in the cool liquid. Paige eventually joins me at the poolside, hanging around with a dumb smile on her face. I splash around and settle only when a family of four enters through the gate. They shoot confused glares (probably because I'm fully clothed), to which Paige gives me the universal "it's time to leave" stare. I shrug, wading over and extending a hand for help up. It's met by another, and mine tugs just as hard as my arm will allow.

When Paige surfaces from underneath the water, her eyes are wide set and frantic. Not like she hasn't been in this position before, but the fact that I caught her off guard. The girl who has a firm grasp on every aspect of life has been surprised. _Point, Fields._

Quickly, though, the score is settled when two hands grab hold of my shoulders and dunk me. As soon as air meets my face, I do the same. And then Paige and I are ignoring the now swimming children, concerned only with settling scores in a playful mix of dunking and tackling.

This lasts for the better part of ten minutes. That is, until the mother walks over, flips her sunglasses up, and coughs. Paige simply shrugs and looks to me, saying, "I'm fucking starving." This time, I smile before nodding.

* * *

Soaked to the bone and laughing like children, we climb from the pool and trudge toward the course's main clubhouse. Wet trails follow us inside. Curious glances meet us in tandem with a blast of cold air, but Paige doesn't seem to mind either. She merely flashes toothy grins at those whose attentions are directed our way. I don't possess the same verve, but follow closely in her shadow.

We're all of ten feet away from the bar when the body in front of mine slams to a halt. I look to a now panic-ridden Paige, seeking her direction. There isn't an ounce of decisiveness. Her face is too flush. Devoid of any real color, mind the pale whiteness that now infiltrates her features. Her frame stiffens. Two eyes fixate on a man with close-cropped hair, chatting with another man that pours dark liquid into his glass.

I nudge forward, but my mentor doesn't budge. Following her eyes once more, I take a good look at the man who currently dominates her concentration. His mannerisms look eerily similar to Paige's. The bone structure, eyes, and stature. They're practically spitting images of each other. "Paige?" I eventually whisper.

My answer comes in the form of a firm grip to my arm, yanking me in the opposite direction. "We're leaving," is all that I pick up in the panicked frenzy.

At the cart, I remain silent. In fact, neither of us speaks as we tear off, cutting across a far green and back into the woods. There are no hitches this trip. We smoothly sail right into the shed, darkness settling in all around. Even if I can't see Paige's face, judging by her breathing, I know that something is terribly wrong. Especially since up until the clubhouse, we were actually having a pretty decent time. Joking around and laughing. But just as soon as the mysterious man appeared, everything's gone south.

No words are said until we're back inside the facility, cutting through a line of patients that effortlessly fractures to accommodate our intrusion. No one questions our sun-dried nature. Finally, when we barrel into the downstairs common room, Paige says, "Meet me here later. We'll—uhh—we'll run through the checklist then."

When she turns away, I muster the courage to reach out. "Hey, what's the matter?" I ask earnestly because I actually am worried. A little freaked, sure. But more worried.

To this, Paige produces a forced smile. I've seen these plenty of times. From my parents. Friends. The painful kind. The "I'm really fucking hurting" type. "I'm fine," she says. "No worries at all. Later, okay?"

Helplessly, I nod, manage an equally faux grin, and release her arm.

* * *

It seems that the sting of Avery's absence is still prevalent, for in addition to rehabilitation, I'm now receiving the silent treatment from my peers. Shady eyes cut from all angles. At some point, I'm forced to pretend as if I don't notice. Which is particularly easy, considering that earlier now dominates my thoughts. Guilt and shame come in tidal waves. How I threw Paige under the bus this morning, only to have the reality of her complete and utter humanism slap me square across the face.

_I'll tell her about this morning,_ I half-heartedly vow, my gut screaming the exact opposite. _I'll tell her that I tried selling her out to Dr. Evans and how terribly wrong I was in assuming._

For hours, I wait. Parked on the too stiff couch, I wait for Paige's return. A battle of heart and mind lasting until the second she reappears in the doorway, bearing a scowl. I instantly know that her mood has changed. Probably from too much thinking. That's typically my demise when left alone.

But something's different. She's reverted back to the sad hostility from when I first met her. As if today has been an illusion. So, when she silently motions for me to trail, I apprehensively do. Hopefully, we'll be able to discuss what's currently eating at her. Maybe I can be a positive change. Bail her out of something as she's done for me time and time again, it seems.

"Can I get a hint of where we're headed?" I playfully ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Cutting around a corner, she stops dead in her tracks and turns around, bearing a grimace that would make Oscar the Grouch jealous. After a couple of painful seconds, she manages a grin and says, "One word: _breathtaking._"

* * *

Honestly, there's nothing breathtaking about the facility's swimming pool. In comparison to my old high school's, this is a trash can filled with water. I don't bother pointing this out to Paige, who appears on the verge of killing someone who so much as sneezes in the wrong direction.

So when she urges me to sit next to her on the edge, it comes as a surprise. But we have the mandatory questions to run through. Even if we did spend the day skipping out on every single mandatory thing we were supposed to do.

Skimming her bare foot atop the water, Paige breaks the tension by saying, "I wasn't always like this, you know. I used to be like the water. Calm. Steady. At peace. That is, until—" Suddenly, her leg thrashes out, cutting directly into the tranquil surface, causing ripple after ripple of chaos.

"Until what?" I nervously ask, unsure as to what in the hell she's saying.

A finger points down. "Get in."

"I'm a bit swimmed out," I try joking.

Paige's expression doesn't falter. Her forehead merely dips below. "Get in." Far more freaked out than before, I gently push forward and dip down. Her same finger then extends to the wall behind me. "Freestyle. Take a lap."

I huff before using the wall as leverage, propelling me forward. It's a quick journey across and back. When I return, Paige orders, "Again."

Return. Again.

This continues for eight laps or so, until my muscles scream for relief. Lungs beg for a break. I can't remember the last time I did so many hard laps this consecutively.

After the last, when my head lifts from the water, a forceful hand meets its top. Suddenly, I'm descending rather than climbing to fresh oxygen. If my lungs were begging before, they're on their hands and knees now. Offering me anything in the world if I will Just. Get. To. Air. I buoy upward, barely inhaling a fraction of breath before descending once more. My efforts are useless. Thrashing about does nothing but expend what little oxygen my body still possesses.

Finally, the hand releases my head. In one fell swoop, I inhale all of the world's air and force out a choked, "What the hell was that?!"

Paige is closer to the water now, knelt down and propped up on one hand. Her shoulders hunker forward, voice now calm, collected, and hauntingly cold. The eyes that once reflected so much light dimmed with heartache. Betrayal, even. "_That _was called insight, Emily," she spits, eyes narrowing into slits. "Whatever your deal is, it's not going away. In fact, the more you fight, the more it's going to fight back. And that pain is going to drag and hold you under until you can't fucking _breathe._ May as well come to terms with the truth, because when you're finally forced to, it'll be too late. And the truth is—I was only ever trying to help."

She stands up and turns on a heel. I remain bobbing up and down, utterly confused as to the nature of this recent outburst. Unless…_shit._ Paige nears the doorway, pausing only to spit one last remark before she slams the door shut. Her lip quivers and she bites it hard before saying, "Trying to drag someone else down with you isn't healthy, either. Take it from the batshit crazy girl."

* * *

_Oh, boy._ I don't follow Paige out, considering that she might try and kill me with her bare hands. Instead, I allow a thirty-minute safe period to pass. Tensely waiting to see if she returns.

She doesn't.

So I dry off and tidy up any remnants of my late night swim. In the hallway outside Paige's and my room, Angie trounces around with a clipboard, poking her head in various doorways. Ever since the other night, the counselors have been buckling down on checking rooms.

What I don't notice is the pile of clothes sitting in our doorway. More specifically, a pile of my clothes. My other belongings are haphazardly thrown into the mix. A jiggle of the doorknob proves that it's been locked. Compliments of one Paige McCullers, undoubtedly.

A combination of anger and "you had this coming" courses through my veins. Angie eventually sneaks up behind me, tapping on her board with a pen. She then concludes my recent string of unfortunate mishaps by chuckling and pointing out, "Well, it seems that your wish has been granted."


	6. Last-Comma-First

**getlostandruncici: Well, I'm most certainly glad to hear that. Who knows where that split will go? As far as the canon-ness of it all, I thoroughly enjoy some of the material they've given us, and am only trying to put a different spin on some of the occurrences. Glad to see that you noticed. (It was unpleasant to write, as well. Lol.) I certainly appreciate your kind words, and always thank you for reading.**

**Guest: I definitely appreciate the sentiment, and greatly thank you for taking the time to read and comment.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.**_

* * *

The realization comes to me by way of a nightmare. I'm in a pool, pumping my arms and legs as hard as they'll allow. People are shouting, cheering from all angles. In the distance wait my parents, urging me to push just a little bit faster. At the starting line are friends and old classmates, coaxing me back to where I began. I wade somewhere in the middle of the chaos, torn between both ends of the spectrum. Lost as to which move should be the next. Frightened that regardless of what decision I make, it will ultimately be the wrong one.

My dream vanishes with the sounds of _thud, thud, thud._ I peel my eyes open to the sight of a scrawny boy with buzzed hair, his too-large head sporting a pair of spectacles that would make Benjamin Franklin seem up to date with the latest fashion trends. He appears taken aback by my abrupt wakening, pointed finger hovering dangerously close to my nose. "Emily?" he asks.

I nod, grunting and lifting up from the common room sofa. Angie wasn't much help last night after Paige dumped my belongings in our doorway, so I was forced to take refuge on the only open semi-comfortable looking surface. It's becoming increasingly clear that nights are now metaphors for my life. Rough, fidgety, and downright hostile; mornings feeling like hell on earth.

"Bobby," the boy says, shifting a folder from his right hand and extending the appendage my way. "Seems like you and I have been paired together."

At this moment, Paige wanders through the area, eyes fixated straight ahead. She doesn't budge when I initially call out, ignoring my new mentor. The second time I mutter an annoyed, "PAIGE," she responds by way of an upwardly extended middle finger. She then rounds the corner, disappearing within a second.

Big-Headed Bobby wordlessly leads me to the cafeteria, where we exchange simple introductions over a lukewarm breakfast. Personal crap that sets him apart from Paige, who wouldn't dare reveal such information. Evidently, in his pre-Piney Groves life, he was a major proponent of huffing any substance deemed huffable. I quickly chalk this up to the cause of his fidgety behavior and tendency to slur the occasional word.

I don't pay much attention to the boy throughout our meal, and pay him no further mind when the bell rings. Paige is too fresh on my mind as I make my way to morning classes, which apparently replace group meetings after one's stay extends beyond the first month. And as I settle into a classroom desk nearest the backmost corner, she remains the most prevalent worry.

Had I not finally gotten what I wanted? The slightest fraction of humanity from Paige? A reasonable effort on her part? Of course I did. And what did I do? Managed to shoot that horse square in the face after a brief moment of embarrassment. Being caught in the wrong, I'll admit.

Though, come to think of it, Paige wasn't necessarily in the right, either. No, she was far too busy holding mirrors up to my flaws. Devising elaborate schemes to make me appear foolish and uncommitted. And then acting as if nothing happened, taking me on random getaways, and then practically drowning me in the facility pool. Passing a near-death experience off as insight.

Jeez, man. If she's vying for the coveted "I'm Not Crazy" trophy, then that girl definitely has some reevaluating to do.

* * *

The next few days begin running together. Dreary blurs of events that may or may not have occurred at their given times. Thankfully enough, mornings are no longer accompanied with sharp pains or nausea. Instead, I'm merely trapped in this seemingly never-ending shitty mood. Another accurate representation of Emily Fields, I do suppose. Winning some and loosing many, many more.

The classes are similar to those that I'd be taking at Rosewood. Your basic maths, sciences, and histories. Each is led by the drone of a Charlie Brown teacher. A constant _wah, wah, wah_ that really puts a damper on functioning at full capacity. More so, Hannah isn't sitting in the desk next to me. Joking around with her used to get me through the weekdays, and now that I'm stuck next to a girl that I sometimes can't determine to be either dead or alive, it only makes paying attention all the more difficult.

This morning, though, our lesson is interrupted by an almost silent click of the loudspeaker, signifying that someone is about to speak. Surely enough, Dr. Evans's voice begins reading off a slew of unimportant announcements. Scheduling changes. Procedures for tomorrow's visiting hours. The only real tidbit that catches my attention is that of a swim meet occurring this weekend.

It's being held at a neutral sight, and the competitors are names with which I'm unfamiliar. High schools, more than likely. Because I have a sneaking suspicion that if Piney Groves were to compete against other facilities of its kind, there would be no swimming at all.

Slightly intrigued and even more envious of those not in an eternal grudge match against one Paige McCullers, I sneak off after history to catch a glimpse of the team practice. Through a square Plexiglas window on the pool's outermost double doors, I watch as a handful of bodies navigate back and forth in the water. Paige stands poolside, barking orders as they continue. Her eyes are narrow, lips pursed, and a single crease resides in the middle of her forehead. She looks as my old coach would have when we weren't making times.

Needless to say, I don't think our team's doing so hot, and there's nothing that I can do to help.

* * *

I'm further banished to the common room couch, waking early today on account of Mom and Dad's visiting. It takes roughly forty-five minutes to go through the waiting line, having our pockets and jacket insides checked before entering the foyer. I'm not sure why, but Paige comes to mind yet again. How much effort is involved in preparing for a visitor that may not even show.

As was the case for her, but is most certainly not for me. Mom, being the ever punctual creature she is, stands arm in arm with Dad at the line's front. And when I'm finally situated at a table and the doors are opened, she practically beelines her way to me, wildly throwing both arms around my neck. Dad merely smiles, hugging me in a much more civil fashion.

Moments pass before any of us speak. My mother is far too busy crying, so Dad asks, "Well, how is my little girl holding up?"

"A lot better than Mom is," I joke. Only now do I take into full account that he's wearing his Army bibs. A camouflaged jacket and pants tucked into black high-top boots. "I thought you weren't scheduled to be sent out until later this year."

"Weekend trip," my mother finally chimes in, dabbing at both cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket. "Basic training for the reserves. Your father's been asked to help out."

"Fighting the good fight," I hum, taking into account the very rationale they'd given me when I was young and wondering why Dad was always leaving for months at a time. "_He's gone to fight bad guys_," Mom would say. Up until the age of nine, I firmly believed one of my parents to be a superhero.

Dad smiles and nods. "Always."

The rest of our conversation ensues in this same manner. One-worded answers. Sullen nods and semi-broken glances. Freaked out glances. Small talk about what's going on in Rosewood, how the team is doing, and what my friends are currently up to. "They send their best," Mom says warmly.

My attention strays at this point. Across the room, Paige sits at a table of her own, hands folded and foot tapping in waiting. Her expression is far more hopeful than the last time I saw her in the same position, looking on from the upper landing. Something inside me assumes that after today's four-hour window has passed, however, she won't be as cheery.

Part of me wants to reach out. Invite her to our table, if only to absently converse instead of sitting alone. To kill time until whoever she's waiting on arrives. Another larger part of me refrains from doing so, particularly because having the bird thrown my way in front of a crowd isn't of utmost importance. Especially when the gesture would undoubtedly elicit an onslaught of questions from my parents. Their worry would build. Mom might try handling the situation in her somewhat confrontational manner.

No, it's best that I try ignoring the girl and focus on my parents, whose eyes now meet my gaze.

"Are you feeling any better?" Mom asks in such a motherly tone. The eggshell kind. The "I don't want to sound too accusatory but you really screwed the pooch on this one" type. I eventually nod and force a smile, if only to soothe her woes.

Dad doesn't seem convinced, for he grunts and leans across the table, capturing my full attention. "It's _really_ great getting to see you, my dear." His voice sounds so fractured, and it takes everything that I have not to break down on the spot.

I've never had a specific preference for either parent. They've both been so great. Done their best. Attended my meets, cheered me on. Reprimanded me when I screwed up, and offered consoling words when I was down.

But now, I can't manage to shake the feeling of anger towards both of them. The sickening mix of betrayal and malice of what they did. Crumbling under the weight of Family Services. Sending me here for half of the year. Senior year. Not so much as questioning the rule of every external force that threatened our trio. I could've gotten better on my own. At home, of all places. I could've pulled myself from whatever slump that so clearly dragged me down, though there really was no issue to begin with. They didn't have faith in that. Instead, they gave me my ultimatum—Piney Groves or naught—and surely enough, we're all experiencing the ramifications of their quick, feeble-mindedness.

"Danby's still on the table, you know," my mother says, placing a hand over mine. "This is only a setback. You can still go to college there and swim and achieve everything you've ever dreamed of."

_Well, this conversation took a turn rather quickly._

"She's right. You'll be home in no time, and then we can start preparing what needs done for your future," my father agrees.

And then they jump into this spiel of possibilities, possibilities, possibilities. How they're endless with my talent. That maybe Spencer could give me a few pointers in applying to other schools. That I should use the down time in Piney Groves to weight my options and come to some drastic conclusions.

All of it sends my head spinning. Wishing that they'd leave the topic alone. Allow me to tackle each day as it comes and nothing more. That's not the way things work in the Fields household, unfortunately. Every menial task is in preparation for a much bigger one. Like breakfast somehow affects next year's Christmas dinner. I fall silent and look back to Paige. At least my issues with her are a bit more black and white and ten times easier on the mind.

Eventually, our hour together comes to an end. Mom immediately reverts back to her crying stage, and I hug her, trying to maintain a composed façade. Only when Dad leans into my ear and whispers, tears seeping into his words, that he loves me dearly is it that I lose all resolve. And with three fresh streams of salty, hot water streaming down our faces, we're forced to say goodbye.

* * *

I catch BHB later as he scours over an array of pamphlets. Some of the names are familiar. Colleges located all over Pennsylvania. One of them is the state's main university, where Spencer has rambled many times on applying to.

The mere sight of his research is enough to send me away, wishing that after all of today's events, I could resort back to Mom's medicine cabinet. Pop one of the chalky white caplets and float away on the cloud I so frequented.

Maybe this is the valuable insight that Paige has been striving for. Though I can't quite determine why her concerns are any of my own, it only feels right to ultimately make things right with her. If only to appease my conscious. To thwart off the guilty notions that plague my thoughts. Especially considering that she's popped into my head all of twelve times today, and it's really starting to annoy me.

Whatever the case may be, I decide to go looking for her. Lay my pride to rest and simply apologize for acting so irrationally.

After dinner is when I decide to go. Venturing out to the only spot I know where she might have disappeared—her second favorite place on this earth—I'm stopped short, just underneath the shade tree from the other day. Sounds of heavy breathing trickle into the fast-approaching dusk. I look up to find a pair of legs dangling freely from the balcony. Dr. Andrews's cry spot. Surprisingly enough, the brunette has her face propped against one of the metal bars, taking steady drags from a cigarette.

"Those really take a toll on your times," I call out. She doesn't respond, but flicks the stick of white through the railing and my way, where it falls just at my feet. With this slight acknowledgement, I inhale sharply and dart back inside, tackling the outer staircase two steps at a time.

As luck should have it, Paige has not moved from her perch. And when the heavy door creaks open, she doesn't look back. Instead, she allows her frame to hunch over even more, body weight pressed firmly into the balcony railing.

In the doorway, I stifle a moment, nervousness settling in. I employ my mother's old tactic, counting to three and diving into whatever situation presents itself. Three eventually comes. As does ten. Twenty-five. Fifty. _"Christ, Fields. Just do it,"_ I mutter. _"Nothing's going to happen."_

"Not a doctor. Not a shrink. And most certainly not deaf," Paige eventually breathes, breaking what I thought to be an internal monologue.

With a steady breath, I wander back into the cool night and sit next to her. Then we're both just here, our feet dangling and swinging in tandem. Bugs chirp into the surrounding darkness. A breeze floats by in the gentlest way. All around, things fall serenely into place. Calm. Quiet.

Oh, how I wish my thoughts were the same.

"The future absolutely terrifies the hell out of me," I practically whisper, like someone admitting to murder in a confessional box. "Things manage to speed and crawl by at the exact same time. I guess I enjoyed making things just—stand still. It's not much answer to your question, but it's all I've got right now as far as explanations are concerned."

Silence then returns, swallowing the admission.

Paige barely glances at me with sunken, sleep deprived eyes before eventually shrugging. "You're right. It's not. A little too sentimental for my taste, actually. A bit self-righteous. Mushy, like squash," she snarls. "But a starting point, nonetheless."

"If you're referring to the other day… I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Pissed off and angry. I never meant to say what I did."

"But you did," she quickly returns, looking away.

I huff loudly, realizing how I've underestimated how difficult this conversation is going to be. Rainbows and sunshine? Negative. We've been dancing too much along the lines of "who's going to punch the other first?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did," I offer. "And I'm sorry for that. If I had known—"

"You don't know anything," she interjects matter-of-factly.

"No. No, I don't," I breathe, gradually becoming more annoyed with each millisecond that this exchange persists. "I'm really trying, though. But you're not exactly giving me be the benefit of the unknown doubt, either."

At this, she sarcastically chuckles and reaches for a piece of loosened concrete, chunking it over the railing. "Seems about right."

Ignoring her blatant disregard, I say, "Today, you were expecting someone. They didn't show."

"Emily."

"Paige."

We're then teetering around in some sort of Mexican stand-off. Waiting for the other to cower. Staring each other down. Admittedly, I'm surprised that she hasn't up and left yet. Granted, I'm the one encroaching. Asking twenty questions. Trouncing into foreign territory. Practically doing cartwheels all over the unsteady ground of No Man's Land. You get the picture.

Paige simply chuckles again, biting her lip so much that it turns white. "He just forgets is all," she eventually mutters, eyes shifting away. But the way her voice quivers with each word suggests that maybe she's trying to convince herself of the matter, rather than stating fact. Still, though, she repeats, "Yeah. That's it. He's forgetful." Heartbreakingly insistent, this girl.

"A starting point," I try joking, mimicking her tone from before. And when another tense moment passes, I address the elephant in our too-cramped room. "Listen, I screwed up. That much is true. We both have," I say in one breath. "_But_ I also know that you've had my back up until this point, and it's about time that I return the favor. A swimmer to swimmer agreement. An I.O.U of sorts. Agreed?"

In a split-second, her head cuts back up. "We're not in cahoots," she retorts.

"_Cahoots_?" I faux-laugh, having to suppress a snort at the word. "Fair enough. Do I at least get my bed back? That couch is kind of screwing up my perfect posture."

My former mentor finally cracks a smile, shaking her head. "After the multiple stunts you've pulled? My vote's for another week of couch duty, minimum." She then pulls out another cigarette, to which I cringe and take it as my cue to leave. And when I'm finally in the doorway, Paige calls out in her steely tone a last time, "This doesn't make us friends, Fields."

Remaining turned to shield the smirk that forms on my face, I say, "I'd expect nothing less."

* * *

The next day is as uneventful as the others, filled with monotonous happenings. Meet with BHB at breakfast, retrieve peppermints and refrain from mentioning the doctor's daily boohoo sessions, go to class, eat lunch, casually pass by Paige, act even more casual because we're not in cahoots or anything, and repeat. For the most part, at least.

This morning, though, my spirits feel lighter. Maybe it's the halfway making amends with Paige. Maybe it's the fraction of belief that I have in regards to the next five months. No enemies. No fuss; no muss. Either way, today doesn't seem nearly as hard to tackle, which is really saying something.

When I meet with BHB at breakfast, his mood is as chipper and talkative as usual. Seriously, this kid can go on for ages. And with the way that his pair of glasses that rests on his disproportionate head bounces with each word, it's quite the sight.

Anyway, he's practically hopping from his seat at the cafeteria table, rambling on about a topic that I'm not paying much mind to. That is, until he says, "It's exciting, gaining such a strong addition for the team. Someone besides Paige with _actual _experience."

"Do tell," I eventually tease, "who is this _exciting_ new swimmer?"

BHB seems a bit thrown off by my question. As if I'm supposed to already know the answer. He doesn't say anything, but nervously cocks an eyebrow before standing and waving a single finger, motioning for me to follow. I do, primarily because it seems to be the only thing that I'm capable of nowadays.

We bypass a lone security guard and venture down the winding hallways until I'm standing in front of the very set of doors I seem to be drawn to. BHB then points a lanky finger to a corkboard on the rightmost wall. Tacked to the piece is a single sheet of white paper.

Names are typed in uniform order. Last-comma-first. The top line clearly recognizes this list to be the roster for this weekend's swim meet. It's of no concern to me, and I look back to my mentor confusedly to portray the point, but he merely gestures forward.

My eyes skim the list, ticking unfamiliar names off with each level that they descend. That is, until I reach the very bottom.

BHB was right to be confused by my questioning. He was right to cock an eyebrow. In fact, I am currently doing the same.

Then again, I have every right to do so, as well. After all, you'd do the same if you were seeing what I am. Is this a joke? Another sick prank?

In bold, black lettering, the two words stare at me from the list's bottom line. Last name-comma-first.

_Fields, Emily._


	7. Timed Trials and Tribulations

**Guest: Oh, but I've always been a sucker for some decent tension. Lol.**

_**Author's Note: I apologize if any of the fonts appear different than the others. Word crashed on me, and I was forced to make edits through the site.**_

* * *

I kind of figured that this girl was similar to night and day, the way she can transform from semi-compassionate and slightly vulnerable into a psycho hose beast within the blink of an eye. But this, this is something else completely. Polar opposite from anything I've ever experienced.

So, in hopes of weathering the emotional storm that's become of my acquaintanceship with Paige, I abandon BHB and make a beeline back to where we came from. She could be anywhere within the building, and I'm determined to find her. Because tormenting a person is one thing, but openly giving them the one thing they've been seeking out with twisted intentions of snatching it away is an entirely different ball game. A game that I'm afraid of being far too ill equipped to play.

Surely enough, Paige is stationed in one of the facility's many narrow hallways, chatting away with a girl I've never seen before. Their expressions read a conversation of deep matter, so I don't interrupt. Well, I hold my tongue up until ten minutes have passed and the chatter hasn't dwindled in the least.

Physically feeling my face twist into one of discernment, I march forward and approach the pair, earning equal eye-cutting glares of agitation. "We need to talk," I mutter to Paige, who huffs before giving the mysterious other a knowing nod.

"To what do I owe this surprise?" she asks, shifting all of her weight up against the nearest wall.

"It was you, wasn't it?" I immediately return, far more comfortable now that the other girl has disappeared. Paige's silence serves as answer enough. And when her mouth goes to form a reply, I say, "Of course it was."

"You don't sound particularly enthused with this golden opportunity I've delivered," she breathes, rolling her eyes. Then, in one fluid motion, she uprights and embarks in a mad dash down the hallway. I follow with enough verve to hear the tail end of, "Figured this is what you wanted. Christ. Strings had to be pulled, Fields."

Rounding a corner at her side, I say, "With all due respect, I'm having a difficult time seeing this as such. I haven't practiced in ages."

"Just the other day, remember? Your laps were fine," she grumbles.

_Before or after the "insightful" experience that just so happened to come in the form of my almost drowning?_ I think. We're now barreling ahead at full speed, and I have to tug at her right arm to sneak another word in. "Paige."

Rolling her eyes again, Paige throws her head back, propping it against a door. An audible groan follows. "Look, one of my swimmers was recently busted stealing canned corn from the cafeteria. Lame, I know. But now we're a swimmer down and quite frankly, I'm sick of losing," she says in one breath. "So are you in or are you out? Do you—oh, what was it?—_have my back_ or not?"

"I don't know," I offer, suddenly feeling ashamed for making such an empty promise. In my defense, though, a simple heads up would've left little room for disappointment. But it's becoming increasingly clear that "simple" isn't in Paige's vocabulary. She is far too intricate for simplicity.

"Figures," she gripes, uprighting once more. "Can't count on anyone these days." Paige then rolls her eyes in a last, most fervent way of finality, turns on a heel, and begins walking away.

Is this what's becoming of the two of us? Arguments filled with crisp one-liners and hefty groans. Don't forget the chasing, either. Though this time I refrain from following. Instead, I cross my arms, and in a quick decision call out to the dwindling image, "Say it, then." Paige stops and turns, cocking her eyebrow. "Say that you need my help, and you've got it."

A hearty laugh ripples through the hallway. My stance is returned with one of similar fashion. Crossed arms. Tall stature. Chest poked out. "That's not how this works."

"The way I see it, you haven't got much choice as far as _this_ is concerned," I say.

The sternness is met with equal resilience. An expression that reeks of stubbornness. Within a handful of seconds, the façade falters. Barely, but it quickly flips Paige's scowl into a look of semi-disbelief. The compromising kind. Shaking her head and eventually settling both eyes on mine, Paige mutters through half gritted teeth, "I need your help, Fields." I let the words linger in the air for a moment. Bask in them, if you will. Paige, however, is having no such nonsense. "Well? Are you going to make me get down on one knee or what?"

Playfully digging into my ear, I say, "There must still be water stuck in there. You'll have to repeat."

"Christ," she spits. "We need your help."

"Who?"

"We— _I _need your help."

"A bit louder, please."

"FOR THE ABSOLUTE LOVE OF GOD, I AM IN DESPERATE NEED OF EMILY FIELDS'S HELP. WITHOUT IT, I VERY WELL MAY CEASE TO CARRY ON IN THIS WORLD."

Two passersby stop in their tracks, looking suspiciously at a red-faced Paige.

I smile, acknowledging this as merely a small battle in comparison to the war that lies ahead. But damn, does it feel good. Shrugging, I say, "One race. Relay. No singles."

She nods, and the smirk that follows catches me off guard. "Perfect," she says, beginning down the hallway a final time. And before rounding the corner, Paige looks back and points, muttering out, "Because you're pulling anchor."

* * *

The remnants of a moral victory still burning bright, I catch BHB at dinner, where he envelopes himself in my account of recent events. "You've accomplished the impossible," he says, giggling. And then, shielding a hand over his mouth, BHB says in a robot-like tone, "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

We both laugh at this.

"Hopefully the sting won't be too fresh come tomorrow," I joke, poking my fork at a mound of red and beige that's supposed to pass for spaghetti.

With a mouthful, BHB shrugs. "If you're referring to her control-every-aspect-of-everything nature, I don't mind it so much. I think it's kind of hot, her yelling at us and what not." And when I shudder, he teases, "What? Bossy's a good look on some people."

I quickly decide that Paige certainly does not fit the bill for "hot" bossy people. But it's never really been my deal. In fact, a generally laid back vibe is what was so attractive about Maya when we dated. How she just rolled with the punches. Then again, a free spirit also sent her off on an adventure to God knows where without so much as a phone call. Needless to say, that relationship died shortly after it began.

"Anyway," BHB says, breaking my train of nostalgic thought. "I've got a suit and cap for you. Where do they need to be dropped off?"

_Common room couch_, I think. _Right next to the rest of my stuff. Hard to miss, really. It's the massive piece of raggedy furniture that smells like refried beans, stale cigarettes, and pee. _"Room one seventy-eight," I say, referencing Paige's room. My former room. My soon to be room again. Well, maybe.

BHB shoots a quizzical look when I stand up. As if he's mulling over the words and they just don't add up. I address his stupor with a confused glance of my own, to which he responds, "First floor's for the mental patients. I just didn't realize you were—you know."

"I'm not?" I say, not feeling so much as offended as I am defensive on Paige's behalf. Then again, hadn't I done the same? Assume, assume, assume. But now, my curiosity is somewhat piqued. Is Paige secretly an ax murderer? Do little voices compel her to do heinous acts? With this in mind, I say, "They were out of rooms upstairs. But—are we talking, like, microwave-your-pet-hamster mental? Or more of an 'I see dead people' loony?"

"If only," he jokes. "More of the depressed types. Self-harmers. Things of that nature."

These startling new revelations are enough to send my mind reeling, and I soon bid BHB adieu, wanting to squeeze in _some_ practice before tomorrow. To try and forget the past thirty seconds altogether. That is, until I'm off and digging through my bag, searching for apt swimwear. The picture that Mom and Dad left the other day—one of them together—is gone. Vanished in thin air. I tear through the duffel bag multiple times, each producing the same results. A massive pile of nothing.

A pang of anxiety instantly hits my chest. Someone must have rummaged through my things. Stolen the keepsake. And even if I had the slightest idea of where to begin looking, of who to accuse first, it would only stir up more trouble. Have yet another person sent off into the Place of No One's Mentioning. Force pair after pair of eyes to bitterly cut my way. Again.

I shake my head to clear the thoughts, swallowing back the knot that quickly forms in my throat.

* * *

The morning of our meet, I'm awoken to the sounds of scuffling feet. The sun has yet to rise, and I fight the urge to fall back asleep, considering that BHB now enters my makeshift domain. A towel is slung over his shoulder, bag strap dangling loosely from his arm.

I take this as my cue and quickly dress in the room's darkest corner. Outside, twelve or so boys and girls file toward a small shuttle bus. Following, I nestle into the front-most seat, taking a moment to survey the team.

We're an odd bunch. A slew of sleep-deprived teenagers that couldn't possess the slightest fraction of athleticism, even if we tried. A driver eventually shows, buckling into his seat and cranking the engine once, twice, before it finally takes. Paige is the last to arrive. And when she steps on, she pauses and gives an almost disappointed shake of her head before sliding in next to me.

Considering that I now have zero positive presence from my parents on the morning of a meet, music will have to suffice. And it does, up until an ear bud is gently tugged from my left ear. "You seem out of it," Paige mumbles sleepily. "Nerves?"

Dad's voice instantly rings through my mind. His typical spiel about nervousness being the only true sign of readiness. _"If you're not on edge, then you're stagnant. When you're stagnant, you're jaded. And when you're jaded, you lose," _to be specific. Frankly, I would kill for this pit in my stomach to be from just nerves. Since when has anything been _just_ one thing or another, though? No, for now, with the pre-meet routine fully underway, and with my parents being so far away while I'm here, to possess jitters would be too selfish. Too typical. Like I'm going behind their backs, swimming this weekend.

Not like it's been _my _idea. I'm simply helping a peer, right? Wrong. Because somewhere, deep down, I'm a bit relieved by Paige's going behind my back. And it's this relief that kills me. The guilt of betrayal that pursuing normalcy in such a not normal situation can produce.

So, to Paige, I merely shake my head.

"I swear, Fields," she says, her voice growing louder with each syllable, "if you're getting cold feet on me, we're going to have a problem. I'm sure you've noticed, but Bobby's head is far too big to function—SORRY, BOBBY—let alone run the anchor spot."

"It's no issue at all," I breathe, annoyed with her pestering at such an ungodly hour. And when she frowns, I insist, "Really."

Paige retrieves a pair of headphones and situates them on her ears before sighing, "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

* * *

We arrive within the hour, and the familiar act of marching into an opponent's gym is enough to kick my drive back into place. I change in front of the locker nearest Paige's, sticking to ritual and not removing my ear buds all the while.

Over the next little while, nobody from our team wins. Poor BHB comes in dead last in his race. A short, disproportioned girl almost squeaks ahead in hers. The relay is next, and BHB, Paige, a lanky boy, and I gather next to the platform. I halfheartedly expect some sort of speech from Paige. Something motivational. Imagine my surprise when nothing of the sort comes.

The familiar sound of a starting whistle rattles throughout the room. BHB is first to take off, diving from the platform with as much grace as Hanna fiddling around with Spencer's field hockey gear. He swims, flips, and propels forward. After four laps, the lanky guy follows suit. Swim, flip, propel.

I soak in the sounds of cupped palms against water. Legs paddling up and down. Extending in and out. _Normalcy. _In time enough, Paige is crouched atop the platform, hands bracing against the front, legs semi-bent and at the ready. And in a split second, she's flattened in the air, eventually breaking the water's seal. It's fluid. Peaceful, almost.

When my turn comes, all thinking dissipates. I fall into a trance. Then I'm falling through the air as well, a rush of coolness swallowing me whole. My body works furiously against the pool, as the three before did. Swim, flip, propel. Pump, gasp for air, and pump again. _Normalcy._

The only prevalent thought is that of counting laps. And when the final arrives, I begin working overtime. Pump, gasp for air, pump.

I'm panting heavily at lap's end, the absence of physical activity undoubtedly broadcasted across my beat-red face. But this isn't of concern, it seems. My struggle for steady breathing doesn't register with the three confused looks I now receive. Did I do _that_ bad?

I look around, only to find the other swimmers still pumping. Still gasping for air. Still returning to the motion. "Damn," BHB says in awe, kneeling down at the pool's edge. It's another ten second of swim, flip, propelling before the other swimmers come to a stop.

And then the official comes to my side, blowing his whistle and raising a hand. The crowd claps, their dissatisfied murmurs coming to a hush.

"I'll be damned," Paige says once we're settling back onto the bus. "You actually came through."

We both tiredly sink backward into the uncomfortable half-leather seat. Even though I didn't contribute much to today's cause, my muscles are completely shot. I absently toy with the simple yet meaningful pendant that hangs around my neck before saying, "I'm a woman of my word, McCullers."

Paige barely cracks a smile as her head falls heavy against the small inside window. And by the time we return to Piney Groves, I've caught the better part of an early afternoon nap. Everyone is clearing off as Dr. Evans approaches the bus and begins congratulating their efforts. I try standing, only to be held in place by a firm hand to my wrist. The doctor's eyes then cut inside as she ascends the small flight of stairs, to which Paige promptly explains, "We're going to visit Gram."

"It's far too late for that. Tomorrow, maybe," Dr. Evans says, shaking her head.

More insistently, the girl next to me chimes, "Nope. Today. I _need_ to go. Just think of it as a preemptive medical furlough."

"Medical?" the older woman asks. "What are you—"

"Because your complete and utter lack of faith is giving me heartburn, Doc. And if this persists, I'm going to keel over. Is that what you want? Do you want me to _die_?" I have to stifle a laugh at the squeakiness Paige's voice takes on when she's being sarcastic. "Oh," she begins, "and Fields is coming with."

I cock an unknowing eyebrow to Dr. Evans, assuring that this scheme has been far from premeditated. On my part, at least. She then huffs and shakes her head in defeat, returning to Paige before saying, "Three hours. No more."

"Four," Paige says.

"Three."

"Three and a half?"

"Paige," I plea.

"Emily."

"_Paige_," Dr. Evans repeats.

"Tabitha," the girl deadpans. "We've worked hard today, and deserve _some_ sort of reward." She makes it a point to flash the medal.

Groaning a final time, Dr. Evans ends the exchange with, "Just be back by dinner, okay?"

When it's just the three of us remaining—Paige, myself, and the man who's been toting our team all over town and acted as our interim coach earlier—seconds linger before Paige points ahead and says, "Drive." He hesitates, though. As if silently refusing to proceed will somehow hinder the girl's spirit. It doesn't. Because, in her all-seeing and hearing fashion, she says, "You know, _'_Coach_'_, the only thing worse than banging on a bus where innocent teenagers frequently sit is the fact that it _wasn't_ your _wife_ you were flailing on top of. Seriously, it was traumatizing, catching you and Not Your _Wife_ doing the deed. And I'm convinced that you owe me for my gracious silence. Now drive, please."

The engine then slowly evolves from a grumble into a roar, and as a petrified look creeps across my features, Paige clarifies with a point of her thumb. "Third row from the back." We both chuckle.

* * *

No one speaks, mind Paige's occasional instruction of where to turn. And after a much longer drive, our bus pulls into the parking lot of a small, single story building. Just outside of the front doors, she turns and clearly instructs, "You'll want to keep close. It's dinnertime here and things manage to get a bit hectic."

I don't mention that three o'clock in the afternoon is awfully early to be eating dinner until we're consumed by a sea of slowly moving gray and white air. Actually, the frail bodies swallow me whole. Paige maneuvers the mass with ease. And she's out of sight in mere seconds, her head that stands tall against the rest disappearing in thin air.

Eventually, though, she appears around a corner. Standing off to the side, smiling grimly. "Closer than that, Fields," she murmurs before grabbing hold of my hand, but not in the interlocked finger kind of way. Instead, her palm coaxes mine along in the warm way that a mother leading her child across the street might do.

We walk, turn, and walk some more before slowing into an open room where old people sit patiently as younger orderlies bring plates to each individual. Paige's eyes scan the area, nodding as she spots a destination, and pulls me along once more.

In a corner rocking chair, stationed in front of a massive checkerboard, sits a petite woman with curly brown hair. Her eyes remain trained ahead as she bites her lip, eventually reaching out with shaky fingers and moving a circular black piece forward. After another move of the same, she cackles. "Well, I do believe that makes win number twenty-seven. Or loss, depending on whether or not you're in my chair."

The old man across meets her extended palm with a cup of dark brown pudding, which she aptly throws back at him, thumping the man squarely in between his eyes. "Vanilla, Walter. I said vanilla."

As I begin mentally preparing for World War Three, a battle that will be fought by way of pudding cups, Paige swoops to the man's defense. She kneels down, picking up the object, and sends him off with a smile and hushed "I'm sorry."

"Still the ever charitable granddaughter of mine, I see," Rocking Chair Lady gripes, not once peeling her eyes away from the checkerboard.

"Still old, I see," Paige returns.

The mood immediately shifts as RCL looks up, her scowl contorting into a grin of surprise. Paige assists her in the struggle to stand, even as the woman completely bypasses her granddaughter's outstretched arms. Instead, I'm wrapped into a vice grip of a hug. Eyeing me up and down, she wastes no time in saying, "You're a lot prettier than Paige's last girlfriend. Oh, what was her name?"

"Shana, Gram," Paige says, pulling a third chair up to the table. "Her name was Shana. And this is Emily. She's _just a friend_ from school."

"So I'm a friend now," I mumble, earning a proud twist of wrinkly skin.

I awkwardly take a seat when this Gram character finally hugs Paige, gaze immediately shifting to the girl's forearm, where her sleeve is now being pulled up. Wrinkled fingers slowly rub over the area, a look of concern splayed out over their owner's face. "What did I tell you about those sticker bushes, dear? They'll get you every time. I've got a right mind to tell Nickie not to let you out of the house alone if you can't be careful. And speaking of the boy, why hasn't he come to visit me?"

Her topics jump all over the place, and I'm struggling to keep up. Paige is obviously far more seasoned, for she simply breathes, "Dad's just busy. He'll be by soon enough."

I'm not sure why, but this is precisely the moment in which I tune out their conversation entirely. The occasional tidbit about school or swimming or Paige's mother comes into play, but I don't dwell on analyzing Paige's intricate web of seemingly rehearsed lies. I'm too busy thinking of the other night. "_He's just busy_," she said. Her face dropped at the testimony. And here she sits, expression dancing the thin line between sadness and joy. Between tolerance and contentment. Accepting things as they come and enjoying the hand she's been dealt, for a change.

An hour passes. Then two. I occasionally smile or nod in agreement, but that's all. The rest of my time is spent watching. Intently scrutinizing. Realizing that Paige is like a puzzle that needs piecing together. The only issue being that I've been given a handful of materials and have absolutely no clue as to what the finished picture should look like.

Still, though, being here, surrounded by walking corpses and watching as Paige interacts with her ostensibly tough-as-nails grandmother; all of it makes her appear heartbreakingly human. Fragile. Tender, almost.

The visit comes to an end when Gram finally hugs us both again, says that she loves Paige and wouldn't mind seeing me a second time, and mutters, "I'm proud of you, child. Keep up the good work and give your father a hug from me." Cue Paige's painful, forced smile.

On the bus, there's an obvious shift in the air. Neither of us says anything as we rest our heads on our respective areas. At some point, though, the overwhelming urge to cry hits me. Out of fucking _nowhere._ Today's been great, so why do I suddenly feel so terrible? How can it be that just when things are beginning to look up, I tag along with Paige, sending my heart and mind into a rapid descent downward?

Call it misplaced guilt. Call it pity. Call it whatever the hell you please. Because whatever "it" is, I'm forced to reach out for something to take hold of. Like a child afraid of the dark, or spooked by a thunderstorm. Paige's arm is the first thing that falls under my hand. She tenses for a moment, but eventually relaxes under the grip. And then we're both just sitting here, silently communicating. Offering condolences to the other by way of the occasional flex or off kilter breath.

And this continues as such, until I barely turn my head and look down to the area that falls under my touch. "One too many sticker bushes, huh?"

"Yeah," she breathes, voice slightly catching at the word. Paige refuses to meet my eye as she then mumbles, "Something like that."


	8. W-W-B-D

**BokononCradle: Well I certainly appreciate that, and as always, thank you for taking the time to read/review.**

**dotylink64: I'm most certainly a fan of the troubles to come, lol. If I can figure up some decent ones. And I thank you for taking the time to read and review.**

**Author's Note: ****There's far more dialogue in this one and significantly less going on, but I assure you, it's all for good reason.**

* * *

I'm beginning to realize that the business of deciphering Paige is comparable to that of freely swimming in the ocean. That the deeper or farther I extend, the more terrifying things appear. Immense. Vast. Capable of changing in a mere moment. And the longer one lingers, the more curious they become, the better chance this immensity has of consuming them.

That's how I currently feel. Swallowed whole by the depths of her carefully hidden pain. Foolishly endowed with the task of mending her broken pieces, despite my not knowing of precisely where the fractures lie. _Why? _I sometimes ask myself. Why feel as though I'm tethered to this girl? Why the interest in her woes? Why dare take on the burden of aiding Paige through trying times? Why anything?

Maybe that's the thing about secretly vowing to help another, (and why I've always lived by a particular code of selfishness, no matter how narcissistic it may seem.) Repair takes time. It takes patience and commitment. Diligence in the face of sure-to-be adversity. And all of this despite the fact that this attention makes me all the more vulnerable to her troubles, which, like a deadly poison, could very well drag me under.

_This is it, kids_, I think aloud. _The Great Demise of Emily Fields will begin shortly. Please be sure to silence all cellphones before it begins._

A random passerby stares slightly from afar, much like the kids in my old neighborhood did at the homeless man who frequently talked to pigeons.

For a fraction of a second, I consider having my name legally changed to Pigeon Man.

Well into the next afternoon, even during routine activities, these discomforting thoughts do not dissipate. If anything, they grow in intensity. Eventually, the sound of Paige's brokenness blares over the mental loudspeaker. "_Something like that._" Something like what? Is there more to this situation that I'm not fully grasping?

Remember when I mentioned blindly assembling a puzzle? Now, some motherfucker's come along and dumped a box full of Legos into the mix, requesting that I construct a 3d version of the Mona Lisa, too.

BHB waits for me in the corner lunch table, and as luck should have it, the sole cause of my current anxiety joins him. I take a second or two longer in approaching, but eventually do, sliding in beside my newest mentor. Both he and Paige look up and smile.

"Still sulking, I see," Paige notes, poking at her bowl of vegetable soup.

I don't respond, but focus on the frothy liquid below. An eerie resemblance of swamp water, this stuff, complete with the occasional carrot. Her eyes meet mine, to which I sheepishly revert back to soup analysis.

"Okay," Paige barks, sending a jolt through my nervous system. "This has gone on long enough. At first, I thought it was pathetic. But then I took a step back, considered that you might still be getting into the swing of perpetual loneliness, and let it slide. This, though? Moping around like some lost puppy? Over a measly picture, of all things? _Come on, Fields._"

I slowly stir the soup, absently saying, "It meant a lot." And then, as a lone bean surfaces at the top of my bowl, as does the realization. "Wait," I say. "How did you about the picture? Was this you, too? First, signing me up for the meet. And now you're going through my bag?" I'm then clutching tightly to the utensil, mentally plotting out ways of causing physical harm with a plastic spoon.

"_Woah._ Weapons down, please," she nervously half laughs. Then, angling a peace sign toward her eyes, Paige says, "I see _everything._ And you sort of talk in your sleep."

"So you're just an asshole then," I snarl.

She places a hand flat against her chest, allowing a faux look of flattery. "And you must be proposing. Because that is by far the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." She looks to BHB, fluttering her eyes. "Seriously, my heart just skipped a beat."

When BHB begins grinning from ear to ear, I nudge him. Hard. "What?" he whines, cradling his side. "She has a point. You _have _been kind of mopey."

Just as I'm about to nudge him a second time, the farthest set of double doors creak open. Our eyes shift in tandem as a short blonde limps into the room. Calley's frazzled appearance is the first noticeable defect. Like someone who hasn't slept in weeks. Black circles just underneath her eyes. Matted hair. She looks like an entirely different person from before. A polar opposite of her former sprite-like self.

"I don't understand the need for theatrics," Paige mutters under her breath, obviously uninterested with the current spectacle. "Bitch has been doing this for the past week. Acting like she's the fucking Queen of England, when she came up from the basement looking like the Creature from the Black Fucking Lagoon."

BHB snorts soup from his nose, choking as he reaches for a napkin. "Basement?" I ask.

"Secular holding," BHB answers when his laughing fit subsides. "They send you downstairs, away from everyone else. Make you sit and think about what you did. It's time out, basically. She and the others were sent there a couple of weeks back."

"Compliments of you, of course," Paige adds, pointing her spoon at me.

I go to mention _her_ involvement in the matter, but decide against doing so on account of the panicked, wide-eyed glare Paige immediately shoots my way. Back to the soup, I suppose.

We each carry on in silence, slowly but surely clearing the meal's remnants from our trays. For the most part, at least. Something about the main course is off-putting enough, not to mention Calley's dramatic reentry into my life.

Could it have been her that went through my belongings? That stole the one item I've been counting on to get me through each day? Every second, more unanswered questions arise. And every second, those questions become ones that I cannot ask in fear of more consequences. If only I hadn't royally screwed the pooch with Paige. She'd be able to offer insight, surely. But now that she no longer holds a presence in regards to my treatment, who am I to rely on for a mentor's wisdom? BHB? The boy who's currently blowing bubbles into his soup by way of a straw up the nose?

Paige must sense my suspicions, because she begins staring at Calley too. Biting her lip, the brunette returns to us, quickly collecting things from the table. "You done?" she asks, moving my still full bowl to her tray. Then, in one swift motion, Paige begins moving purposefully across the cafeteria floor.

"Is it just me, or is Paige acting especially different?" I ask. "More talkative or whatever."

BHB narrows his brow, as if thinking deeply, before deciding on a careless shrug. "I guess she took her meds today." And before I can dig for any further details, his gaze shifts to Paige, who has yet to reach the dish-drop window. In fact, she's nowhere near it. Unless you consider the room's dead center, hovering an oblivious Calley's back, as close.

And then, as if sensing something out of the ordinary, BHB drops his spoon before nervously standing and saying, "But I've been wrong before."

* * *

When a plane experiences extreme mechanical difficulties, the pilot usually comes onto the intercom and in a solemn tone, mutters, "_Brace for impact_." Three relatively harmless words that, when strung together, immediately strike fear into the hearts of each passenger. An onslaught of thoughts then enters their minds. Maybe the image of a loved one pops into their head. Or the expected "_Is this how I'm meant to leave this world?_" "_I should've done things differently._" Their lives will play out like movies before their eyes. At some point, if they're lucky, they might accept their fate. The more optimistic person might blink rapidly, trying to relieve themselves from the terrible nightmare.

Regardless, one singular idea settles into their heads—a crash is inevitable.

In the moments that pass in this cafeteria, I can conclude but one thing. If an individual's life came with a mission statement or disclaimer, Paige McCullers's would be as such: _Brace for impact._

To the few that look on, what happens next comes as a shock. Because in a place like Piney Groves, nobody expects revolt. Nobody expects individual coups. One might foresee that as domesticated patients of this facility, the internal quarreling we experience would come in the form of a prolonged shouting match, at worst. But as a plane that plummets to the ground, crashes remain inevitable.

So, when I witness Paige dumping the contents of her lunch tray over blonde hair, the contents slowly running down Calley's face, I can't help but envy that plane. Its passengers.

At least they had warning.

Confusion penetrates Calley's features. Disgust. Neither of the two cafeteria monitors have caught wind yet, it seems, for Paige's stance remains intact. She is not being tackled to the ground. Yet. Instead, she stands, arms crossed in front, bearing a scowl that could cause cancer.

BHB and I are the sole audience. Paralyzed by surprise. Dumbfounded. A carnal stupor glues our feet into place. Then, as one of the orderlies begins darting across the floor in slow motion, my brain kicks into overdrive. The once rattling pinball of rationale comes to a standstill, primal fight-or-flight instinct shifting into gear. Without any further hesitation, I venture toward a different table, grab a handful of mushy white from someone's plate, and hurl it across the room.

When an angry-looking boy begins staring me down from afar, I point a finger at BHB. I barely manage to mouth an "I'm sorry" before a blob of yellow splatters across my mentor's face.

And then, in systematic fashion, chaos unleashes. Splotches of different colors and textures begin to litter the walls. One, two, seven. Gradually, until teenagers are hunkered behind tables and tray shields, using what they can as edible ammunition.

This is not the scene of a happy-go-lucky food fight, though. No one laughs merrily. Years from now, people will cringe when they think about today. They will tell their children of this moment, speaking carefully and remorsefully, as a war veteran might.

I crawl across the floor, escaping with minimal damage and ducking behind a line of trashcans. At some point in the madness, Paige joins me, brandishing a joyful look of determination. She flashes me a toothy grin before poking her head out, only to be nailed in the ear by a glob of mashed potatoes.

Ten minutes later, the throwing subsides. Everything that could be used as a projectile has been expended. The security guards have since arrived, laying most everyone flat on their stomachs, shouting questions as to who the tussle's initiator is. Half of the room's fingers point at Paige. The other half's fixate onto me. BHB simply smirks before raising his own hand.

* * *

"I slipped, all right?" Paige insists once the three of us have been marched into a very angry Dr. Evans's office. She's been fending off the doctor's pointed questions for the past fifteen minutes. Redirecting blows intended for BHB and me back toward herself. "Besides, Calley had the _audacity_ to speak ill of Bobby's ginormous brain cradle. She compared it to a watermelon! A. Freaking. Watermelon. And so I said, 'No way, Jose. It's more of a cantaloupe, if anything.' Then she said—"

Dr. Evans has spent the better part of Paige's spiel uncomfortable readjusting against the desk, where's propped against the edge. "Get to the point," she interjects, finally settling into one spot.

"The point _is _that I cannot stand by and allow such snide remarks to be tossed around. Especially at one of my swimmers. Protect your own, Tabby. Always protect your own," she hums.

This would typically be the point in which the doctor calls bullshit and damns our trio to the Terrifying Land of Time Out, but I'd like to believe that Paige has _some _pull over the woman. Tenure and what not. Even if it would only add to the list of things I will forever be endowed to her for.

"And you consider a cafeteria brawl to be proper means of peaceful warfare?" the doctor snaps.

"A _brawl_? That's a bit dramatic," Paige almost singsongs. "It's like this: when a momma bear sees her cub in distress, she cannot be held accountable for her actions. I mean, W-W-B-D? What would Batman do? It's like, in the Bible or something."

BHB giggles a little bit, covering his mouth. If Paige wasn't sitting in between us, I would undoubtedly smack him upside the head. "They don't pay me enough for this," Dr. Evans whispers, furiously rubbing at the bridge of her nose. "But fine. _Whatever._ Robert, do you feel as though your honor has been defended?"

"Rightfully so," he answers proudly.

Her eyes then tear into me. "And you," she snarls. "Why is it that whenever trouble stirs, you're to be found?"

Umm. Uummm. "Bad timing?" I respond, sending BHB into another giggling fit.

Paige places a hand on my arm, all while maintaining direct eye contact with the counselor. "What my colleague is _trying_ to say… is that injustice is a nasty mistress, and she has no patience for infidelity." Then, cupping her hand, she loudly whispers, "She's a social vigilante in training."

Seconds pass. Then a minute. Then almost another. While we silently wait, the doctor places to fingers to each temple, massaging gently. "Get going, you three," she practically whispers. And as we near the doorway, she mutters without looking up, "Paige, I'll be seeing you later."

In the hallway, BHB says, "So if I start calling you Momma Bear…or Batman…"

"I will set you on fire," Paige says without a moment of hesitation.

* * *

At some point in my devoted time of self-pitying, Paige wanders into the room, studying an old Polaroid camera. The kind that takes a picture, hums for endless seconds, and spits your still developing image from its frontal mouth. "Holy shit. I didn't know these things still existed," she says, a popsicle dangling from her mouth. Bite. Crunch. Slurp. "And to think, I only had to wrestle a homeless guy for it." She laughs, clearly amused with herself.

An extended open palm breeches my line of vision. Sitting atop the flesh is a small pile of shredded paper, various corners bearing singe marks. My parents' faces have endured the brunt of the torching. With enough clear thought, it's easy to see that the damage is deliberate. As if a flame was precisely targeted toward certain parts of my former keepsake.

_Click._ Paige giggles to herself, shaking the black and white slip furiously before handing it to me. "This'll have to suffice," she says. At a quick glance: she's holding the popsicle erect between her middle and ring finger, crossing both eyes, and wearing a grin menacing enough to give any nightmare a nightmare of its own.

"You're quite the charmer," I deadpan, falling back onto the bed.

_Slurp._ "You're probably wondering where I've been. Well, I'm glad that you asked," Paige says, plopping down next to me. Completely ignoring the fact that I'm all but interested in her recent whereabouts. Quite frankly, I've been enjoying the alone time. "So I have this theory about people being called dildos," she continues. "They don't like it, right? Right. So I marched up to Carey's room—she's _officially_ out of the crazy house, by the way—and did just that. Called her a dildo. All up in that smug face of hers. Needless to say, my theory was proven correct."

"All in the name of science, I'm assuming," I mumble through a loud sigh.

Paige points the blue popsicle at me, practically taking off my nose in the process. "_YES. SCIENCE._ Anyway, you can probably figure out the rest. Chick took that picture of your absolutely lovely parents, nestled that bad boy over a candle, and the rest is, well, science."

"History."

"Is for losers," she chuckles, slurping the remnants from the plastic.

I don't mention the subject being my favorite of all high school classes. Something about wars and people of the past is absolutely fascinating. Maybe because someone else's past makes mine seem just a little less terrible. Unless, of course, you're using Mother Teresa for comparison. At which point, we're all damned.

The shredded, slightly burned pieces of paper fall light in my hand. With the gentlest of squeezes, they disintegrate. _Poof._ So I chunk those poofy bastards across the room, helplessly watching as they flutter to the ground. "Atta girl," Paige singsongs in approval. "Get pissed off for a change."

_I am mad, you ass. I've been fucking angry since day one. _I flop back onto the mattress as Paige digs another blue popsicle from her shirt, shuddering at the sudden change of sensation. She then reaches to our now mutual nightstand, retrieving a pair of dulled scissors and working meticulously at the plastic. They're the elementary kind. Blades that struggle construction paper, much less something so tightly sealed. It's a solid two minutes before she manages the end piece off, tossing the utensils angrily.

_Bite. Crunch. Slurp. _God, this girl is loud. "So I've been thinking," she says. "Actually, I've compiled a list of possible solutions to your not-so-problematic problem." Paige digs into her pocket, producing a folded sheet of white paper.

I scour the list, mentally crossing off each solution. "Murder is kind of illegal in some states. Or so I've been told," I sarcastically breathe in reference to item number four.

She laughs with a mouth full of melting blue ice, methodically balancing the liquid on the corners of her mouth. "The legality of things need not be confused with their usefulness." I cut my eyes, earning a shrug of indifference. "If it did, you could probably go ahead and toss out the entire list."

Which is true, considering that each of the final six suggestions involve some sort of arson. I quickly make a mental note of sleeping with an eye open, should Paige ever return to our room in the foulest of moods. "None of these mentions, I don't know, telling someone? Dr. Evans or Angie, perhaps. Maybe they could help. And, you know, keep us out of prison."

"I hear the food's great," Paige deadpans. "But that's a moot point, considering that we will not get into any trouble, and therefore need absolutely zero assistance. Why? Because FIELDS IS NOT GOING TO UTTER A WORD."

"Paige."

"I'm Paige. You're Fields."

With a deep, apprehensive breath, I ask, "What's with the sudden urgency to right all of these wrongs? It's weirding me out."

"No urgency at all," she hums.

"Then there's no issue at all," I return.

"But there is," she insists. I shake my head. Paige then chuckles the sarcastic kind of laugh, saying, "Denying the obvious now, are we?"

"Off our meds, are we?" I snap. All of a sudden, the words float freely through the air, unable to be retrieved.

_Way to go, Emily. Any puppies that need kicking while you're at it? _Okay, so that was extremely uncalled for. I get it. And Paige's look of utter betrayal is enough affirmation of my misguide impatience. Her face contorts in a painful way, like I've just told her that Santa Claus doesn't exist. And granted, the question didn't come out as I wish it would've. The words sounded far too judgmental, but she _did_ provoke me.

Paige quickly shakes the notion from her face, like she's forcing herself to not be upset—which only makes me feel worse—and says in a defiant tone, "She rummaged through your things, took one of said things, and royally fucked that thing up. But you're going to sit here and tell me that it's 'really no issue at all'?"

I nod fervently. "That's exactly what I'm doing."

"You do understand that this blatant act of disregard is not some middle school revenge tactic? She's not spreading innocent rumors or skipping you in the lunch line. Calley purposefully _ruined_ something that was very near and dear to your heart. A piece of you, so to speak. Actually, more than a piece," Paige says methodically, focusing on each word. "No pun intended, but you just got burned."

I'll admit, it's funny. And she smiles at precisely the same moment that I do. But there's very little sense in making my situation more than what it is. A mountain out of a mole hill. "Speaking of middle school—did you really believe that a food fight would solve my problems?" I try joking.

"And being a tattletale is any more mature?" she laughs.

We sit in each other's company; Paige continuing her quest for the title of World's Loudest Eater while I try reaching a reasonable solution. There is no such thing, it appears. At least not by my roommate's standards. Sheesh. She only just let me return to our room after the meet, and here I am, about to screw that up once more. With a defeated breath, I announce, "I'll just see what Dr. Evans has to say," which earns a disappointed head shake from Paige. "We'll get this taken care of once and for all."

"Don't," she chimes.

"Then I'll say that earlier was my fault. You won't get into any trouble."

Paige shakes her head again. "My magic eight ball is saying… don't."

"Well, maybe since they're older and far more experienced with this kind of situation—"

"Don't."

"What, Paige?" I finally snap, feeling the agitation from moments ago return. A pain eventually settles into my neck. "Don't take the higher road? Don't be the bigger person? Don't cover both of our asses? For the love of God, don't do _what_?"

I've been angrily ranting with closed eyes, and within a millisecond, a warm hand is pressed my cheek. In all honesty, I expected being slapped or hit by Paige to hurt worse than this. Only with this expectation does a much different realization settle in. Because I'm internally reveling in why her hand is currently on my face, two lips are gently pushed into mine. They're cold and taste of… blue?

Both eyes pop open to further prove my newest suspicion, which is signed, sealed, and delivered by the sight I'm currently settled on.

Eventually, Paige's eyes follow mine in opening as she slowly backs away from my face. She then shrugs nonchalantly, as if what's just happened should be the least of my worries. Her casualness and presently forming smirk are soon followed by two simple words. Two words that serve as answer to my question and any futures ones that should arise.

To the nervousness splayed across my face, she merely says, "Don't tell."


	9. A Not-So Guiding Light

**Mazza88: Well, I most certainly appreciate that. Her character is definitely a fun one to write. Lol. Thanks for taking the time to read and leave your input.**

**dotylink64: More clarification will makes its way into the following chapters. And I'm most certainly glad that she can bring a smile to your face. Lol. As always, many thanks.**

**saii79: Those are certainly kind words, and I'll do my best to not disappoint. **

**getlostandruncici: I always try to incorporate canon experiences into pieces, putting a different twist onto the situations. As far as your questions are concerned, I'll elaborate on them in the chapters to come. And when it comes to the ranting, I believe we'd all sign up for that role. Lol. As always, many thanks for taking the time to read and provide valuable input.**

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__**I've been writing these most recent chapters off the cuff and without much clarity as far as the progression of this piece is concerned. It's all been a vague idea, but I just had something of an epiphany in regards as to where this story will go.**_

_**I also apologize for the update extending beyond a week. Normally, I'd much rather wait than allow time restraints to compromise the quality of the piece, but anything more than a week is simply frustrating. (Especially on my part, lol.) So, please, bear with this chapter. I know it seems a bit off kilter, but clarification will soon come. **_

_**And as always, I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read, and especially those who leave their input.**_

* * *

_Paige kissed me_, I think, lying in bed this evening. _There I was, expressing genuine concern toward getting into any more trouble—for both of our sakes—and she planted a wet one on me._

None of this seems surreal, for surrealism warrants a bizarre nature. Even though that's exactly the term I would use to describe Paige's recent actions. Unusual. Weird. Strange. Completely and utterly out of the fucking blue. But a kiss? It's just crazy enough to be considered normal.

To analyze tonight any further would mean to lose more sleep, and since I've only just fallen back into something of a regular schedule, I allow the thoughts to cease, if only for a couple of hours.

When morning rolls around, Paige is still snoring. Loudly, I might add. Like the annoying hum of a refrigerator one second shy of bursting into flames. I sneak out of bed and dress, silently maneuvering towards the door. A tri-folded piece of paper thwarts my efforts at silence. It loudly flutters to the ground. Inside lie handwritten instructions urging both I and my roommate to meet in Dr. Evans's office as soon as possible.

Suppressing an annoyed groan, I venture toward Paige's bed, clueless of how to wake the refrigerator. _Poke_. No response. _Harder poke_. The slightest shift, proving that she hasn't died in her sleep. Crunched for time and mildly giddy at the notion, I skipp any further buildup and rare back for the hardest smack that my frail, non-slapping hand can produce. And just as skin is about to meet skin, Paige's menacing eyes pop open. "Unless that hand is raised only to be followed with a 'Hallelujah, praise the Big Man', I would suggest that you refrain from picking a fight that you are not prepared to finish."

Well, kids, the movies have failed us. Typically, they show a friendly awakening followed by laughs and merry continuance. They do not, however, prepare anyone for an open threat. Then again, anyone who frequents documentaries that include bears being awoken in the middle of hibernation probably could've seen this coming.

So, flying off the cuff, I dumbly produce the folded piece of paper. "Uhh, we're needed."

Paige snatches the note from my hand, scans over it quickly, and crumples the sheet. She then proceeds to shove every square inch of balled up white into her mouth. Thus ensues the half-asleep maniacal chewing.

I take this as my cue to leave.

In Dr. Evans's office, one of three chairs is inhabited by BHB, who I greet with a smile and nod of my head. Gathered around the oak desk are Dr. Evans, Dr. Andrews, and Angie. They smile, too.

We sit in silence for the better part of fifteen minutes, waiting on Paige to appear. And when the door finally creaks open, her presence is announced by way of, "My name is Paige, and I'm an alcoholic." I wince and turn around, to which she says, "What? Wrong meeting?"

"Sit, please," Dr. Evans responds. Angie and Dr. Andrews do the same, taking their places in two fold-up chairs. Everyone falls silent once more, and I'm growing all the more convinced that death by tension is a very real thing. I can see it now: _What's the prognosis, doctor? Was it the psychotic ramblings of her roommate, or can we attribute the heart attack to her fear of impending doom?_

"There's been a certain level of distress amongst the patients, to put it lightly," Dr. Evans begins, aimlessly flipping through a manila folder, closing it, and flipping through once more. "So, in an effort to peacefully harness all feelings of duress, I and the faculty have decided upon a friendly event. Something that appeals to everyone."

The folder is transferred to my hands, where I skim over a multicolored flyer. In another context, it would appear to be the creation of Aria. Creative, eccentric. I pass the folder to my right, where Paige openly and hysterically begins laughing.

Ignoring the outburst, Dr. Evans further explains, "Patients will be free to decide their groups, and the guidelines will be announced within the next day or so."

"I'm confused," BHB mutters once the piece is placed into his hands.

"You're always confused," Paige adds. She then readjusts in her seat, tucking both legs underneath her butt. "I'm just trying to figure out why my busy schedule was interrupted for this crap."

Angie interjects, "It's six o'clock in the morning."

"And if these were the olden days, I would've had the cows milked by now. Not to mention that the chickens and hogs would've been fed, _and_ we'd be feasting on a freshly prepared breakfast of biscuits and homemade butter. Seriously, what side of history are you on, woman?"

Wearing a look of bewilderment, Dr. Evans comes to a now almost crying Angie's defense. I chalk the touchiness up to an early morning. "No, Paige. Your busy schedule was interrupted to inform the three of you that your group has already been chosen."

"Need we even waste time in guessing?" she retorts.

"We'd prefer that the groups begin melding immediately," Dr. Andrews includes. "So we've taken the liberty of combining your class schedules and the like."

Paige laughs again. "Who invited you, guy?"

I lean back and glance at BHB, who looks as uncomfortable as I feel. Given recent run-ins with the head honcho herself, it would only seem wise to allow Paige her moment. Let her speak for the group. Like a phase with children, allow whatever built-up sarcasm run its course. Then again, allowing the blind man who insists that he _can_ drive the school bus might seem wise—until twenty-something schoolchildren are screaming bloody murder.

"Planning this for everyone is extremely thoughtful of you guys," I chime in, "and we're looking forward to what's in store."

Shortly after cutting her eyes at me, Paige looks forward into the faces of three satisfied adults, huffs, and storms out of the office. BHB, like the lost puppy that he is, seeks further instruction. "Maybe I should…" The doctor nods her approval, and he follows Paige. I go to do the same.

"Emily," Dr. Evans says, drawing me back into her office. I sit once more, unsure of how long _this_ spiel will take. "I'm not sure what's gotten into Paige, and I can't trust Robert as far as I can throw him. So I'm counting on you to act as something of a guiding light for your peers. You won't let me down, will you?" I shake my head furiously, standing as quickly as gravity will allow and bee lining for the door yet again. "I need you to say it," Dr. Evans calls out a final time.

I turn slowly, suddenly afraid that verbalizing such an affirmation would only send me into a choking fit. Her eyes, though, they glare into me like those of a parent's. The very hint of expectancy Dad would emit before a big race. Gulping in very cartoon fashion, I say, "I won't let you down."

* * *

"We'll be doing everything together? As in every one of the things?" BHB asks once Paige begins toweling off. She promptly dragged us from Dr. Evans's office to the pool, and when the doctor mentioned the area not being open until noon, Paige even more promptly commanded that her shorts be eaten. Or something like that.

"Every one of the things," she repeats matter-of-factly. "No worries, though, bud. Our newly appointed pow-wows won't interfere with the romantic date you and your hand have planned for later this evening." Five fingers flutter through the air.

I try suppressing a groan to no avail. Our trio eventually makes its way to the first of three classes. In Piney Groves, they don't operate by the mandated seven-course day. There are far too many other activities that we, the delinquents of the tri-state area, must tend to that normal high school students needn't worry about. Strictly scheduled meals, meetings, various chores, and in a startling new twist of events—therapy sessions.

As the newly appointed guiding light of our group, my flaws in leadership are quickly pointed out in our last class of the day. Mr. Ettleston, the history teacher, has to pause his lecture roughly six times because BHB keeps randomly breaking out into fits of giggling. The culprit? Paige, of course. She'll wait until no one is looking (except me, of course) and doodle an odd image onto her notebook. Seconds later, the faint chuckles of BHB ripple throughout the densely packed room.

I patiently flash glances of apology to Mr. Ettleston, whose hair grays just a bit more each time he's forced to stop mid-sentence.

We make it out alive, though, and I somehow wrangle my two hoodlum partners into the office where group therapy will take place. A woman with close-cropped blonde hair is stationed behind a makeshift desk. She greets us with a warm smile. Then, as minutes pass too slowly, the smile dissipates. It shifts from warmth to that of nervousness, and as Paige persists in her grilling of the woman who is supposed to be asking _us_ questions, nervousness molds into pure discomfort. We're asked to leave a mere seven minutes in.

"Is it weird that I was strangely turned on when she started asking all of those personal questions?" Paige asks as we venture down the hallway and towards lunch. "Seriously, like, a thousand new fantasies just popped into my head." Turn. "_Four people; one room; endless possibilities_," she says in a deep, robot-like tone. The creepy porno voice.

BHB laughs hysterically. Again. For the thousandth time today. "You're forgetting my hand," he chuckles.

"Don't be rude," she says. "Palmela Handerson belongs to no man."

More laughing.

I haven't said anything since we left Dr. Evans's office, and I don't intend on doing so for the next little while. Not until I've sorted through this muddled idea of keeping Paige and BHB contained. After all, it wasn't but two months ago that I was complaining about Paige serving as _my _babysitter. The doctor had put me on the spot, though. Spouted off these notions of "counting on me" and then forced me to agree with her roundabout antics.

They spend the entire meal devising lewd jokes and then putting them into practice. BHB continues in a constant state of amusement. Paige soaks it up. At some point, when the boy to my left's face turns a deep shade of purple, I snap, "You need to cut that out. You're only encouraging her, and it's going to get us into trouble."

Without a hitch, Paige focuses her attention on the boy and says, "Roberto, would you please inform Fields that as I've said once, and I'll say again: NO ONE'S GETTING INTO TROUBLE."

"Will you please ask Paige to lower her voice?"

"Will you please ask Fields to raise hers?"

"THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE," I say, now making eye contact with the sole cause of my headache.

She smirks and goes to respond, but swallows the words. Instead, with a look of pure insightful delight, she sends BHB off to refill her drink. Actually—refill the cup, chug it, repeat. A game to keep him preoccupied, though he's far too aware for something like that. But he sheepishly nods, and Paige returns to me, smirk still plastered to her smug face. "You're upset about last night."

"Far from it, actually," I say. Which is true, considering the past six hours. All that's been dumped onto our plates. _My _plate. Being kissed by a royal pain in the ass is the least of my concerns.

Paige isn't buying this, evidently. "It's completely understandable. After all, I've been confusing ladies since I could walk. It's a crime, really. Paige McCullers, making ladies swoon since the womb." She then chuckles, obviously pleased with that last bit.

"Not," I say, articulating for emphasis.

"All right, Borat. Then why won't you talk about it?" she playfully asks. "Surely there are far more important topics that you could be avoiding. World hunger, for instance. Are you going to deny starving babies their fair chance at deniability?" When I don't respond to this utterly irrational rationale, Paige shakes her head in a faux-condescending manner.

BHB soon returns, excitedly brandishing a full cup. I get up and leave despite the protests from our table.

* * *

Remember when Dr. Evans was talking about group activities that tie into a much larger "event"? Well, our trio is the first to receive instruction, and it comes the following morning. Cleaning, cleaning, and more cleaning. Each morning before the other groups meet. Every night, after they split. Whatever mess they produce—well, you get the idea.

BHB and Paige don't really put up much of a fight against the cause, for they see the free time as opportunity to goof off even more. This morning, for instance, as I unload supplies from a closet, these two opt to practice wrestling moves on the open floor. It's weird that BHB would know these moves in the first place, considering his stature in comparison to Paige's, much less other guys his age. And the difference in athleticism is apparent as Paige flops him to the ground multiple times.

"Point, McCullers," she says, pinning him to the ground a final time.

"Any chance one of you could help out?" I ask.

She grunts. "Minus twelve thousand, Fields."

For the next hour and a half, we unload, sweep, and unload some more in silence.

* * *

"We're going to a concert," BHB announces when I return from a restroom break. He's bubbling with excitement. Practically doing the "pee pee" dance, as Hanna would so gently put it.

Paige knows that I need not ask for a date or exact time, for I will just as quickly refute such a terrible idea. It's a bit amusing, really, how the rationale of tenured patients has been so diminished. Opposite of domestication, for one so consumed with the Piney Groves routine would provide a reaction similar to mine. Paige and BHB dwell on the other end of the spectrum. So eager to break free of monotony that they'll willingly subject themselves to even the rashest of proposals. _"So I'm counting on you to act as something of a guiding light for your peers_." Dr. Evans's voice is boisterous and strict. In like fashion, I look to the giddy boy and ask, "When's your date, Bobby? When are you getting out of here?"

"Two months," BHB announces proudly. "With good behavior," he adds with a smile.

"And what part of sneaking off to a concert strikes you as 'good'?"

He hesitates, and only now does Paige step forward, releasing hold of her broom, an echoed rapping sound following seconds later. "No one's sneaking off," she breathes in a steady tone of irritance. "This little excursion is permitted by the Boss Lady herself."

"I don't believe that for one second," I chide, looking back to BHB. "And you shouldn't either."

BHB begins muttering a dumb "I, uhh–" but Paige grabs hold of his arm before any further protest. I respond by doing the only thing that makes sense in the heat of the moment, thus forcing BHB into the center of a civil tug of war. She pulls his left arm. I yank the right. She tugs again. This time, I release, sending their collective momentum in the opposite direction.

_"Guiding"? Yeah fucking right_, I think as I wait, realize that they have no intention of returning, and with a lasting groan, tear off in pursuit.

* * *

"So where's this concert?" BHB asks excitedly at dinner to an otherwise preoccupied Paige. This is his third time repeating the same question. Each time she reverts to looking at an overhead clock, grunts, and squints.

Irritated by her blatant disregard toward the boy, I slap the table with an open palm. "Town," she mutters in answer.

"How are we getting there?" he asks. "It's a pretty decent ways out."

Only now does Paige shift her attention to our table, brow narrowed in obvious discernment. "I'll think of something."

After roughly twenty more minutes of interrogation from BHB and silent withdrawal on my part, Paige slowly returns her gaze to the clock. It ticks the steady hum of time passing. My nervousness grows. And as three, four, and five seconds pass, I barely register a tensing body next to mine. Strangled gasps follow. Then, in the moments it takes for me to pull a complete one-eighty, BHB topples off of his seat and onto the floor.

Surge after surge of panic ripples through my body, working slowly through each individual bone, as his face reddens. Two hands helplessly reach to his throat. I remain glued in place.

Paige instantly rushes to the ground, and with the same athleticism as their bout before, brings BHB to all fours. In a fluid motion, she opens his mouth and rams two fingers inside. Milliseconds become lifetimes. Those lifetimes transform into eons. And as eons begin the process of lessening in significance when compared to this moment, BHB begins violently hacking. With enough dry heaving, he eventually projects a disgusting mixture of brown and orange liquid.

He crumples to the floor, face pressed flat against tile. More concerning, though, is the sly grin that etches its way into Paige's face. An orderly with extremely hairy arms goes to help our ailing counterpart, but Paige hinders any and all attempts at assistance. Instead, she hovers protectively over a still heaving BHB, barking orders in all directions. The only words I can make out in the midst of the quickly building chaos are "Ambulance. Now."

With some convincing on Paige's part—a strict reinforcement of the "group policy"—we're allowed to escort BHB on his trip to the hospital. Huddled in the back of an ambulance, we both stick close to the boy, though my thoughts are far too dominated by the past ten minutes. How did she know _exactly _what to do?

The sirens come to a dull as we near the hospital's back entrance. And as BHB is whisked inside, Paige lingers in the vast opening, not so much as flinching towards the hospital's interior. She hesitates, but soon begins in quick dash to the lot's backmost gate. Where gravel meets asphalt. I follow in an equally maddened dash, catching her arm halfway down the road. "Where could you possibly be going?" I ask through huffs.

"Out," she says. "You stay here and babysit the vegetable."

At the intersection just ahead, music trickles from around the corner. Soft rock. The sounds of a concert. At this particular moment, with a grotesque realization, I'm overcome with the desire to flatten Paige against the ground and ring her neck until every ounce of life disappears from those dark brown eyes. Instead, I opt to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Surely Paige can't be that menacing. "The convenience of McCullers' circumstance is absolutely profound."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Her breath emits a small cloud of heat against the night's chill with each word.

"I never pegged you as the emergency respondent type," I say. "Unless, of course, you somehow knew ahead of time that this would happen. Tell me, Paige, are you a psychic?"

I've managed my way in front of her, if only to make the girl look me directly in the eyes before she begins stringing yet another intricate web of lies. Make her stare into the fatally cracked mirror she's so often held affront.

Paige steps forward, fingers wiggling as she does, moving closer until the damp chill of her breath against my cheek is most pungent. "Get to what you're getting at or get the fuck out of my way," she snarls.

Considering that the insinuation has had its desire effect, I step to the side, allowing her to pass. And in a manner that would undoubtedly make Spencer proud, I allow optimal time to also pass before tailing her. All at a safe distance, of course.

The venue Paige enters is a hole in the wall type. Shady characters of all kinds flow in a constant stream toward the entrance, and so I delve into the pack, not necessarily blending in but not sticking out, either. To the left lies a stand-alone bar. To the right, an open floor with few high-standing tables. At first glance, the building looks very similar to the coffee shop I used to work at. But as the band onstage picks up the tempo of their music, it becomes increasingly clear that nobody in this place is sipping from a cappuccino.

I spend the next forty-five minutes bobbing and weaving amidst the crowd. The band that introduces themselves as "No Way, Sis"—which sounds like a line from Deliverance—plays a medley of popular Oasis songs. Paige stands directly in front of the stage, staring up at their lead singer the entire time. I do, as well, and at close look, he strongly resembles the guy from Paige's and my field trip to the country club. The guy from the bar. The guy that sent my roommate into a complete freak out.

It doesn't take much further inspection to understand that the resemblance is due, in large part, to the fact that he and Country Club Guy are one in the same.

Only Paige isn't shying away from the man now. She continues looking on with subtle admiration. It's an odd sight, honestly. Enough to land a girl like me a spot on an episode of _True Life: I'm Rooming with a Groupie_. A groupie that chases around middle-aged men. Weird.

As the set begins winding to a close, CCG's beer consumption doubles in intensity. He'll stop mid-chorus, stagger toward his glass that sits atop a speaker, and down the entire thing in one swig. Repeat. And with the final strum of a guitar, followed shortly thereafter by applause, the guy stiffens upright, teeters to both sides, and falls from the stage, landing flat on his face.

Paige's arms remain crossed and she moves to the side, allowing gravity to take its toll. CCG is unhindered, it seems, for he jumps up, thrusting both hands into the air, and cheers. Everyone else in the room does too.

I sneak forward, landing within earshot of the conversation Paige begins with CCG. "Hey, Dad," she mutters disappointedly.

So she's not a groupie. Awesome. Less awesome, though, is the look of confusion plastered across the man's face. I attribute the expression to drunkenness, but he looks genuinely thrown off by the title. The realization must eventually settle in, because, with a look of surprise, he says, "Paige!" Both hands shoot into the air once more. "How you been, girl?"

"Better than you," she absently jokes.

The look of confusion returns. Like a gassy baby. A woman from behind nudges me, urging me forward. I nudge back. "Whatreyoudoinhere?" CCG then slurs.

"Oh, just figured I'd drop in and see how things were going with the boys." One of who I assume to be the "boys" suddenly stumbles forward and practically tackles Paige's dad. Both men proceed to horse around, shoving and head-locking as Paige insistently includes, "I had to sneak out to come see you. I'll probably get into major trouble for being here."

"That's great, honey," he dismissed, clearly unfazed. "Drink?"

Paige shakes her head at the offer. "No, I actually have to take off. I lov—" but CCG's attention is already shifted toward another one of his buddies. Nodding the sullen kind of recognition, Paige turns on a heel and promptly storms out of the building.

Spencer has yet to prompt me on what comes next in the art of following people, so I opt for exactly what the name entails. In the same fashion as I entered, I exit huddled in a group of towering, denim clad men. And just as when we visited Gram in the nursing home, Paige is waiting for me around the corner. She doesn't seem upset. Not with me, at least.

"Sorry I haven't been around dear. Your mother's been keeping me busy around the house," she spits in her father's voice. "LIKE, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK?"

I'm lost for words. He must've said that when I was trying to get closer to the both of them. We're at a safe distance away from the bar, so nobody's around to shoot us odd glances. Or judge my dumb lack of proper consolation. It's just me and Paige on a very, very dark road. "It seems reasonable?"

"They've been separated for nine months," she snaps, almost breathless. "NINE MONTHS. Does he think I don't know? Christ on a cross…I could kill him."

My muscles tense in a fight-or-flight manner, but instead of running away or fending off an attacker, I'm at the ready should Paige actually consider murdering her dad. And with her track record, anything's possible.

Thankfully enough, there will be no crimes committed on this fine evening. For Paige turns once more and ventures down the street, crossing over in a mad dash and hopping a chain link fence. I follow in like fashion until we're both parked in front of the saddest excuse for a playground that I've seen. "You still have my back or whatever, right? Like, you'll do just about any favor that I ask?"

"I'm not sure—"

"Hit me," she says. "In the face. As hard as you possibly can."

"I'm not going to hit you." She huffs and makes a beeline for the swing set. I join her, allowing angry breathing on Paige's part to temporarily fill the void. And then, blindly venturing into No Man's Land, I ask, "What did you do to him?"

"I used to double as both a daughter and bookie—toddler racing—and when Pops tried skimping on his payments, I had to kill his firstborn," she deadpans. "Needless to say, holidays are a little awkward."

"What? No. Bobby, Paige. I'm talking about Bobby."

She laughs but starts fiddling with the shirt material nearest her wrist. The fabric loops, unloops, and loops back around her finger. "We're still hung up on _that_?" Paige begins slowly drifting back and forth, aimlessly staring off into the distance, saying, "Doesn't even matter, because I did not have sexual relations with that woman."

"You did, though," I say, ignoring the historical reference doubled as blatant deflection.

"Did what?" she snaps. "What needed to be done?"

"Bull. Shit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit," I snap. "Nothing _needed_ to be done. Not for the group's sake. But no, Bobby is now lying holed up in a hospital bed because _you_ felt the need to adhere to _your_ own personal agenda."

She then begins clapping. Loudly. Then it slows into a methodical cadence. "You've cracked the case, Watson," she practically laughs. "Paige McCullers is one miserable, self-centered human being. Hell, it's almost disgusting, how she's willing to harm another _just_ so she can be set up for further disappointment."

"I don't feel sorry for you in the least," I say without so much as a second thought. "If anyone ever finds out—"

"You know, you're _really_ starting to sound like a broken record," she retorts. "'What if' this and 'but' that. Cut the holier-than-thou act. We're both equally at fault here." The last line sends me into this game of trying to possibly fathom how any of this could be my fault. That is, until she mumbles, "After all, you're the one who let go."

Is she talking about earlier? A time when I had _no_ clue as to what would come? No, because if I had known, none of this would've happened. Hell, if I could possibly foresee the intentions that her twisted mind had planned, we'd still be at the facility, tucked into bed and just drifting off to sleep.

The amount of "of course"s that I've come face-to-face with is sickening. If only hindsight was a productive tool, rather than a catalyst for malice. Mentally and physically, I begin to feel as though I might vomit everywhere. Especially after the artful insinuation Paige has been throwing around. So, in an effort to suppress the overall nausea that courses through my veins, I say, "Go to hell."

She laughs again before saying, "How fitting."

And then I march off back into the dark—terribly confused, completely unsettled, extremely disheartened, and very, very pissed off.


End file.
